


I Long to Hear You

by socolormecurious



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socolormecurious/pseuds/socolormecurious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous marriage, Peeta Mellark vows to never love again. However, his second wife, Katniss, is not going to let him descend into self-pity.</p><p>Based on the story of Shahrayar and Shahrazad. AU, in-Panem story. Darker but not Dark Peeta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh Shenandoah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mejhiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mejhiren/gifts).



_August_

When the tracks turn and we first see the mountains of District Twelve again, I am instantly reminded of her. I can see her hair in those two dark braids, and I can picture our second grade classroom. Katniss never knew how often the class stopped singing to hear her serenade the air. No doubt she would have been self-conscious. But her voice was like that. At the very least, I could not shut it out. Even now, as the train glides towards the district proper, I can hear her voice rising above the trees.

 _Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you_  
 _And hear your rolling river_  
 _Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you_  
 _Away, we're bound away  
_ _Across the wide Missouri._

When we were kids, neither of us understood the deep longing the song embodies. Her voice was clear as rain as she sang the words didn’t mean much then. I couldn’t imagine a time where I would want come back to District Twelve. All I wanted to do when I was seven was run away from home, from my mother’s lectures and sometimes slaps. Now that I’ve grown older, I can feel what the people who originally sang that song meant. District Twelve may be the poorest district, but out of everywhere in Panem, it is the only one I call home. I remember first making this trip after my Games, and seeing those mountains again, and crying.

Posy Hawthorne has a similar expression today.  She rushes to the window. “Oh, Peeta, look!” she squeals, clapping her hands. Cinna, her stylist, has her in a pale pink dress that falls just above her knees, and so, with the enraptured look on her face, it’s hard to remember that she just won the 86th Hunger Games. She looks no more than thirteen. “Isn’t it just the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen?”

I think of the way that my wife’s hair flowed down her back after our wedding day, the blond curls cascading as she released her pins, and I truthfully cannot say yes. But Victors lie as easily as they breathe. Posy just hasn’t caught onto the game yet. “It is, Posy. You should see it in the fall, when the leaves are dying.”

“Haymitch, come see!” Posy calls. It takes her a moment to realize that our mentor is not, in fact, in the communal car. I can’t blame him. In the past thirty-six years, Haymitch has not been around a teenage girl for more than three weeks at a time. He isn’t ever awake and functioning before noon, either, unless he has a pressing commitment. Even when there is an appointment, I have had to drag a hungover Haymitch out of his bed more than once. The Victor’s Village has been quite a boy’s club for the past eleven years. Posy will do us some good. And Madge will love having another woman around.

Poor Madge. She was one of the few friends I had that did not act differently once I won the Third Quell. Rather, she just simply came to my father’s bakery and talked to me about whatever I found interesting that day. After all the loss and suffering that came with each visit to the Capitol, she was my ray of sunshine. So, when she agreed to marry me when I came back from the Capitol last year, I felt that maybe the worse was behind me. That night was the first in a long time that neither a dark braid nor a golden watch haunted my dreams.

But I don’t think Madge realized how hard it would be, living with us in Victor’s Village. Even though Haymitch and I technically live in separate buildings, we had been functioning as a household since I won. He’s my mentor. I owed him my life. The two of us had fallen into a routine. He passed out drunk, I carried him to bed. I woke him up the next morning. He yelled at me and swallowed some stew. And so it repeated. Madge hadn’t been ready to see Haymitch on those days. Most people only like the Haymitch who is fodder for their jokes and scorn.

She hadn’t been ready for the nightmares, either. I thought having someone there, in the room with me, would make them less violent. But the first night that I woke up towering over her, we decided that perhaps she should sleep in the guest room. I would go over to her room in the evening, but at the end, I would always return to my own room for the night. My visits to Madge had steadily decreased over the months leading up to the Games this year, to the point where we have not been together for over two months. However, I’m hoping these four weeks away will have helped our marriage. I want to make this work. And maybe it will be easier when Posy and her mother move into the Village. It will certainly add more life to the ghost within the town.

As the train pulls into the station, I am surprised as always by the marked difference between the Capitol’s best and the District’s worst. The paint here is peeling and flaking, so much so that if you rest your hand on anything too long, little flecks will follow your hand as you move away. It matches the industrial trains that are used to transport coal. Decades old, those trains were built to be efficient and not much else. Mechanics from District Six are constantly repairing them, but no one in the Capitol has bothered to replace them. This train, however, the one we’re all in right now, is all grace and silence. The sleek metal feels cool to the touch even in this heat, and only mockingjays fly away from it as it cuts through the trees. It has made good time, too. We are going to arrive half an hour earlier than our itinerary suggested.

As we pull up into the station, Effie, the district’s chaperone, pulls Posy away from the window in order to straighten her outfit. I go and grab Haymitch to make sure he’s standing up straight. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Effie straightening the gold pin Posy has worn since the beginning of the Games. It looks oddly familiar to me, but I cannot place it. Apparently, it had looked familiar to Haymitch, too, because when he first saw it, he took his bottle of liquor and headed back to his own compartment. I had to explain strategy to Posy and Kellan, the boy who had been her district partner, by myself.

I had my first nightmare about Kellan the day that Posy came out of the arena. I’ve kept a tally. That’s twenty one tributes. In my own arena, I killed four people, and those four people killed a total of twelve. It is just all rearranging numbers at that point, however, because from any angle, twenty three people died so that I can stand here today, knocking down the door of an old drunk.

When he opens up, Haymitch looks reasonably presentable. A casual observer might not even recognize how drunk he really is. But I can see it in the way his eyes don’t track properly and the way that he keeps touching the pocket where I know he keeps a knife hidden. I gesture for him to get up, and he snorts. “Always the gentleman there, Peeta. You told her how much you sold her for?”

“Haymitch.” This is not the time to be making comments like that. This is Posy’s day. A real celebration, not some Capitol parade with Flickerman hosting. It shouldn’t be riddled with dark thoughts. It’s bad enough that Haymitch is right in a sense. Posy was good in the arena. Her brother had taught her about snares, and I suspect the work she did when she got ahold of a bow and arrow wasn’t just good luck. After all, the district already has a fine archer with dark hair and grey eyes, and that girl was as good as Posy’s sister. But even the best of tributes don’t survive without money. And money is my specialty. This year, I out-fundraised Finnick Odair. It’s an odd thing to be proud of, but in this case, I’m just glad I brought her home.

His laugh sounds more like a bark, and it instantly dissolves into a cough. “You know it’s true, boy. They’ll be back for our debts next year. With interest.” He is most definitely drunk. I look over my shoulder. There’s no attendant that could have overheard us. Of course, that also gives me an opportunity to knock it out and blame it on the alcohol. This next hour would certainly be easier if he were unconscious. But Effie would know, and she can hold onto her disapproval for months.

When we pull up, maybe three-quarters of the district is there. It’s obvious that we’ve arrived earlier than people thought, but the camera crews will make do. They’re surprisingly inventive when it comes to making crowds look larger and sound bigger than they appear. Once the three of them are set up, Posy steps off the train. I button my suit jacket and watch her carefully.

The crowd goes nuts for her. She’s our district’s first female Victor, and she’s only the fourth overall. In District Twelve, we know to appreciate any Victors we get. More than that, however, she was already loved by the entire Seam before she was reaped. Her three older brothers made sure of that. Gale, the oldest, is a coal miner, one of the younger foremen who gained his rank through respect rather than age or money. Rory, the middle one, teaches fourth graders at the school, and Vick, the youngest boy, is a grease monkey. All three are well-respected, and their precocious little sister always won hearts, ever since she was a child.

Posy does a little curtsy for the camera and the crowd, and then she’s off to hug Vick.  He picks her up and swings her around. Hazelle, her mother, is crying, and so is her sister-in-law, Primrose. Rory wraps his arms around his wife’s waist, but he is grinning so widely that it looks like he might split his face in half. And, off to the side, is Katniss Everdeen. She’s smiling, but she’s also unconsciously playing with the tip of her braid. She looks uncomfortable in the blue dress. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. She used to wear dresses when we were kids and her father was alive, but now she only wears that dress on Reaping Days. Otherwise she can be found in a worn leather coat and her large, dark boots.

It takes me a second, but then I realize why this scene feels unnatural. Gale and his looming six-four shadow are missing. I wonder if he got stuck in the woods. The square is crawling with Peacekeepers. Not exactly conducive to sneaking back under the fence. Cray won’t bring it up, however, unless he wants to lose his job. Everyone knows our Head Peacekeeper has secrets that would keep him from arresting a Victor’s brother.

The scene in front of me is getting more emotional, so I turn away to find my own family. My father-in-law, Mayor Undersee, is waiting off to the side so that he can shake hands with Posy for the photo opportunity. As I scan the crowd, I can see my brothers and their wives in the square as they wave to me. I give a little wave back. Neither my dad nor my mother is here. Nor my wife, actually. Usually, Madge would be at her father’s side in her mother’s stead, but she’s neither on the stage nor with my family in the crowd. Perhaps she overslept, but that thought hurts. Things may be rough, but I at least would have thought that she would be here on such an important day.

I look over the Hawthornes again, and this time, I snag Katniss’s eyes. She’d been staring, but the way she looks at me, I feel as if I am perhaps the one who has done something wrong. I raise an eyebrow, and she looks away. I turn away, and maybe I’m just imagining the feel of her staring once again.

I’m a married man. Thoughts of Katniss Everdeen and her braid and her voice should not creep into my head so quickly. It must be the emotions of this day catching up with me. I shake my head slightly to clear it. There’s a rustling in the crowd, on the side closer to town, however, and it distracts me. A large, dark frame and a tiny light one. I squint, and then I forget to breathe.

Gale Hawthorne and my wife are stumbling through the crowd, trying to get to the front without drawing much attention. It’s not working.  Every person that they touch turns her head, and no one fills the gaps that they leave behind. They’re not walking together, but the details betray their common origin. Gale’s grey dress shirt is rumpled, and there is a hint of red on his neck. Madge’s hair is mussed, and her lipstick is slightly smudged. He looks determined, heading towards the stage and his family with purpose, but every few steps, his momentum falters and he looks over at my wife. _She_ is frantic, displaying emotion I rarely see on her stoic face. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is slightly open. It almost looks as if she is going to call out, but she keeps stopping herself. She’s only looking at me. We get caught in a staring contest. Suddenly, I am quite glad the cameras are focused on Posy and not me. This is a very private moment in front of eight thousand people.

The memory of my own return hits me in full force. My family had no idea what to do with me, and most of the district looked at me as if I had grown a second head. I didn’t win the Quarter Quell purely based on my own abilities. At least, not my physical ones. The arena was extremely hostile, with attacks seemingly at random. I had managed to join the Career pack after killing one of their own, but we had no idea what we were up against. All I knew was that I was the weak link, but that I needed to stay alive, as Haymitch so charmingly put it. My best odds were with the very people most likely to kill me.

Even though I had few, if any, allies in the arena, I had plenty of support outside of it. In my interview, I had confessed unrequited love for a girl with the most expressive eyes I had ever seen and the most beautiful voice I had ever heard. It was true, but more importantly, it was a good story that Haymitch could sell. He had gathered enough money that, when the others were asleep, he sent me a watch.

At first, I was furious. The real Careers had received food, so I was dependent on them. But this? It was essentially a token, something I hadn’t brought because it would have been pointless. I just kept staring at the watch, wondering why Haymitch would waste money on such a gift.

Over the next six hours, I finally realized why. The arena itself was a clock, and the different wedges held different dangers. It took another six hours, but I was able to figure out a way out. That afternoon, right before three, I offered to scout ahead, moving safely into the fourth sector by the time the monkey muttations were triggered. Two of the remaining three Careers died, and I fought the third. I would eventually lose my leg from the gash in my shin, but she lost her life.  From that point forward in the Games, I kept moving slightly behind the clock, waiting for my fellow tributes to die off while gathering my strength. It didn’t take long. I came across my final opponent when she was bleeding out from an encounter with the beast, but I didn’t have the heart to kill her. It was only when she begged me to end it quickly that I had the strength to finish what the Gamemakers had started. My win felt dirty, there, something I hadn’t earned. If I hadn’t gotten that watch, I just as easily could have died like the others.

But when Caesar Flickerman brought up my mystery girl in my exit interview, I remembered Katniss. This, more than anything, snapped me out of the toxic fog that had settled. Perhaps now I had the courage to truly admit my feelings for her.  And she had to say yes, would want to say yes, wouldn’t she? I was a Victor now, and I could take care of her and her little sister.

When I got off the train back to the district for that first time, I looked for her in the crowd. She was there, like everyone else in the district, but she was talking to Gale. In that moment, I knew she would never be mine. How could she? He was whole, and I was already beginning to cry in my sleep.

I had buried those emotions deep, and I was happy with Madge. Am happy with Madge. But the way that she and Gale approach, it brings back all those miserable memories. Gale Fucking Hawthorne wins again. I can save his little sister’s life, but he is always going to get the girl. The part of me that wants to fall apart weeping turns to bedrock. I refuse to fall apart. But I will run away.  Madge isn’t even on the stage when I duck off to the side and nearly sprint towards the Village. The Peacekeepers don’t stop me, mostly because they have no idea what to do with me. In a district where there aren’t many Victors, we always get a little bit of slack.

I don’t think, just let the fire burn through me. When I am halfway home, however, a voice stops me. It’s a voice I would know anywhere. “Peeta! Wait!”

 _'Tis seven long years since last I've seen you_  
And hear your rolling river  
'Tis seven long years since last I've seen you  
Away, we're bound away  
Across the wide Missouri.

The words of the song come back to mock me. I stop, even though I don’t want to. A snarl escapes from the same part of me that won the games. “Katniss. You knew, didn’t you? You knew, and you wouldn’t tell me.”

She looks surprised, but she quickly regains her composure and shakes her head.  Her arms up and palms out, as though I were one of the monkeys from the arena, she approaches me as if I were a muttation. “I didn’t, Peeta. I had no idea.”

“Don’t say that! You knew!” The rage is just flowing out of me right now, and I feel as though I am back in the Games. I can feel my heart leaping out of my throat. If Katniss knew what we good for her, she would turn back and run now. Then again, she is a huntress. She might just be brave enough to take on a Victor. Perhaps she thinks she can reason with me, or overpower me if the need arose. I’d like to see her try. I have at least fifty pounds on her tiny frame. “Toy had to have known! She was your friend! He was your—” I can’t bring myself to say the word “lover” right now, so I go for a safer word. “Your friend! You had to have known!”

Katniss closes the distance between us with one step. Her eyes lock with mine again, blue on grey.  “I didn’t, Peeta. I swear.” She looks like she wants to add something, but I don’t let her finish.

“Stop lying! You knew! You all knew!” My hand raises itself, and it takes a second for me realize how close I am to hitting her. Immediately, I drop my hand, and, for a second, the rage is washed over by sorrow. But it is back soon enough, and I continue. “You were all just hiding it from me, laughing behind my back. ‘Oh, look at the victor, not so might now. Money can’t buy him happiness. It can’t even buy him a girl. His wife is fucking a _coal miner_!”

Her eyes widen, and I’m proud of that. I’m tired of being Mr. Nice Guy, as self as that seams. I’m tired of being stepped on by everyone, including my own wife, apparently. Katniss doesn’t respond to what I say. She puts a hand on my arm, but I shrug it off. “If you see Haymitch, tell him that he can handle Posy. I’m done.” At least she has enough tact to know there is nothing you can say to that. I roll my eyes and turn around, resuming my path to the village. But then I stop because it is much easier right now to see Katniss than it will be to see Madge. “And tell her… tell her to send her father to come get her things. I’ll send the paperwork to her parents’ when the Justice Building opens tomorrow.”

I am not going to drag this out because I’m done with explanations. Right now, I can’t stand to see Madge because I know if I do, I will beg her to come back. I will think it will work again. But my mother was right. I should have learned from my parents. There is no such thing as a happy marriage. They’re only the people who are pretending, and those that have given up trying. At least we don’t have children. I’ve always wanted them, but I’m grateful that Madge isn’t pregnant. That would be just one more complication, and there wouldn’t even be a guarantee that the child was mine.

Having nothing left to say, I head home. When I arrive, the Victor’s Village seems emptier than ever.


	2. Poor Wayfaring Stranger

_January_

The extra Peacekeepers who were here for the end of Posy’s Victory Tour are finally gone, and this means the Hob is up and running again. The fence is off again, too, which means for the first time in the past two weeks, I am able to bring fresh meat to the stand Sae and I run. It’s a good haul, and I’m whistling as I enter. This earns quite a few stares, but honestly, I’m just happy to be doing something useful again. I was going crazy in the house with my mother.

 _I am a poor wayfaring stranger,_  
While journeying through this world of woe.  
And there’s no sickness, toil, or danger,  
In that fair land to which I go.

There are more people here than usual, but not all of it is for trading. After what happened two nights ago, I’m not at all surprised. Even though most everyone here is at least twice my age, they’re all a bunch of gossiping school girls at heart.

While the past six months have been good to most of the district, what with Parcel Day and everything that comes from being the winner’s district, it most definitely has not been a good time for anyone who has ever slighted Peeta Mellark. Who knew such a genuine person could hold that many grudges? After the divorce with Madge was finished, he locked himself up in the Village. That is, until some idiot told him that Madge was pregnant. Given how she looks, it’s painfully obvious that this baby was conceived during the Games, not before. When that news reached his ears, Peeta finally left his house.

And he started picking fights. First it was just a shouting match with a merchant vendor he swore was overcharging. Then he went off on some kids playing in the street. Then he hit a miner that made a comment under his breath. It’s bad enough that there’s about one incident a week. My mother saw her fair share of bruises, and the Peacekeepers had to break one up just last month. But Saturday night was most definitely the worst of all.

At least part of the Harvest Festival cheer was true joy. It’s hard not to pass up a full meal in a district where there is never enough food. But there was also wine and white liquor, just on the edges of the festival, outside of the view of the Capitol’s cameras. Peeta disappeared for a good amount of time, but when the cameras were gone, he was almost as drunk as Haymitch. To the best of my knowledge, Peeta never was a drinker before the divorce. I don’t think he even had a drop at his wedding, and he was known to come to Ripper’s stall and bribe her to sell Haymitch water instead of white liquor. Saturday night, however, he was completely gone. He slouched in his chair and watched the crowd with wary eyes.

Gale was dancing with his little sister, stomping all over the square in the “primitive” ways that the Capitol was most definitely not interested in. It was the first time anyone had truly heard Posy laughing since the Games, and those of us who weren’t dancing were clapping our hands in time to someone’s fiddle. Even the weather decided to be kind, and the clouds held off their flaky powder.

When Peeta caught sight of the two, however, he staggered across the square and pointed a finger at Gale’s chest. “You,” he said, and then he swung and hit Gale straight in the jaw.

Madge, who was sitting next to Hazelle at that point, screamed, “Peeta!” but Hazelle held her back. Gale, to his credit, didn’t fight back. At least, not initially. The second swing he ducked, and Peeta stumbled forward. After he regained his balance, the third landed. After the fourth, Gale decided to punch Peeta in the gut. Everyone in the vicinity backed away slowly.

Peeta has at least six inches on me, and Gale has nearly a foot. Both of them could probably lift me over their shoulders without really thinking about it. In fact, Gale had done exactly that, back in the days when we were closer. If someone were going to stop the fight, Peeta’s older brothers or Rory and Vick would be the better options. Peeta’s middle brother and Vick did get up. But before I could really think about it, I ran between them, wedging myself in as the two men pulled them apart.

“Catnip…” Gale warned, trying to shrug off Vick’s grip on his shoulders. Meanwhile, Peeta was pushing forward on his brother’s arm, like a dog trying to test the strength of his cage.

“This is Posy’s day,” I said clearly, “and neither of you are going to ruin it by starting some kind of manliness contest in the middle of the square.”

“He started it!” Gale said, as if he were four instead of the thirty that he is.

Peeta’s eyes narrowed and he still against his brother’s arms. He said quietly, “Oh, I think everyone here knows that you were the one that started this.”

For a second, I bit the inside of my cheek to avoid slapping them both myself. “Enough! You two are grown men!” I turned to look Gale straight in the eyes. “Gale, go home. Take Madge with you and get out of here.” He started to protest, but I silenced him. “Go home before you do something stupid, Gale.” I nodded my head towards the few Peacekeepers left, and he seemed to understand. Out of the two of them, I was honestly more concerned about Gale finding himself in trouble because his temper is always there, lurking under the surface. He wears his hatred for the Capitol on his sleeve, too. When Posy was in the arena, he didn’t sleep. He and his brothers had worked so hard to try and keep the younger ones from taking tesserae, so losing Posy was more than he could handle in that moment.

Peeta, on the other hand, had never shown that kind of reckless rage and blind stupidity before. All of the other fights, including the day he yelled at me, had been tempered by reason. But as I turned back to face him, I saw a flash in his eyes that made the hairs on my back of my neck stand up for a moment. It was the same kind of look in his eyes that I saw when he first found out about Madge and Gale. His chest heaving, the smell of sweat and liquor emanating from his body, I realized this was not the Peeta I knew from grade school. I lowered my voice and raised my hands in a peace offering. “Peeta, I think it would be a good idea if you left before you did something you’ll regret when you’re sober.”

I spoke softly enough that Peeta had to stop resisting his brother and listen. He just stared at me for a moment. His pupils constricted, and his breathing slowed.  He turned around to look at his brother. “She’s right, Levi, let’s go.” Levi let go, and Peeta retrieved his coat and Haymitch. The celebration broke up soon after. The fight had left a foul odor in our minds.

Now, two days later, everyone at the Hob is looking at me as if I had just said I wanted to dye my hair green and move to the Capitol. Apparently people are supposed to run away from a fight, not towards it, and the consensus seems to be that I know something about Peeta and Gale that everyone else doesn’t. I don’t. I would think it would be obvious, anyway, why they were two words away from an all-out brawl. Infidelity tends to inspire strong emotions like that.

I refuse to gossip, and so I keep my mouth shut and my head down. Sae talks to the curious customers. She’ll shoo one off, and two more will come up. I skin the squirrel in front of me with large, violent slashes. It’s exhausting work, pretending not to care. Only a wheezy cough brings my attention away from my latest furry companion. I turn around and see Haymitch Abernathy standing there. He’s not exactly an unfamiliar sight here—Ripper makes her living off of Haymitch’s drinking problem—but I’ve never seen him at this particular stall.

“Katniss Everdeen.” The way he says it, it’s more a statement than a greeting, but Haymitch isn’t known to be polite, or observant. I’m honestly surprised he’s ever been sober enough to learn my name. “Care to talk for a moment?” You don’t exactly say no to a Victor, no matter how toxic his breath smells. I turn to Sae, and she nods. Setting down the knife, I walk around the counter.

“Haymitch Abernathy. What can I do you for?” I say. He looks as awful as always, black curls matted as if he hasn’t seen a shower in weeks. He smells like it, too, that vaguely vomit-and-sherry smell that infiltrates his breath and entrenches itself in his clothes. I turn my head away slightly.

He claps me around the shoulder, and leans on me as if I were a post. I roll him off. Haymitch may have been in good shape thirty years ago, but those days are gone, and I can’t act as his walking stick. “I have a bit of a problem on my hands, sweetheart. Seems one of my Victors wants to kill the other one’s brother. And I’m too old for this shit.”

I look up at the ceiling to count the rungs, willing him to go away. “I don’t see what this has to do with me. Sir,” I add, because Haymitch is nothing if not a gentleman.

Haymitch snaps his fingers in front of my face, forcing my attention downwards. He looks at me as if I’m dense. “I think,” he says slowly, clearly frustrated with me. He’s acting like he’s spent the last forty years as the smartest person in the room. “What my boy needs is another wife.”

“What?” This has to be a joke. Where would Haymitch get that idea? Haymitch doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being a voice of reason, but his brain should still be functioning well enough to tell him the words coming out of his mouth are insane.

“Boy needs something good in his life right about now.” He states it as if it were obvious. In that way, he reminds me of a teacher I had my last year of school. Always ahead and never pausing to let others catch up.

“And you think I’m the solution?” It’s not exactly a secret that I’ve been resistant to marriage or any kind of commitment in the past ten years. Most people, especially those from the Seam, get married a year or two after they’re done with the Reapings. Especially older siblings, because smaller households mean less mouths which means less tesserae. But Prim left before I did, and now it’s just my mother and me. There never was a good reason to marry because I can support myself. There never was a man, either.

“Considering you star in just about every wet dream the boy’s ever had, I’d say yes.” I don’t know what to say to that. My mouth opens and closes once, twice. In what district is that appropriate to say? All those weeks in the Capitol must have gotten to his head. I slap him, hard.

“Haymitch Abernathy!” Sae confirms my outrage. At her words, I become acutely aware of how many people are watching us, and this, more than anything else, spurs me into recovery.

My cheeks still feel like they’re on fire, as if I was the one who was hit. I walk back to the counter as I speak, not bothering to look back. “Excuse me if I don’t quite take you at your word.”

“Let me put it another way, then, _sweetheart_ ,” Haymitch says as he leans over the counter. “The boy’s angry. He hasn’t started drinking yet, but that’s where he’s headed, if he keeps this up. Considering he is the only useful mentor this district has, I think you can understand why that might be a bad thing.” He pauses to let that settle, and then mutters under his breath, “Honestly, you’re about the last person I would pick for this job, considering your _sunny_ personality and your history with Hawthorne, but—”

“Gale and I don’t have history.” I’m tired of correcting that decade-old assumption. There was a point where Gale was supposed to be my inevitable future. I had known that, in the back of my mind, but when Gale expressed his feelings out loud, I realized how wrong it felt. I bolted, and our friendship didn’t really recover until Prim and Rory got married.

Haymitch snorts. “Well, you might want to let the rest of the district know that.” There’s a good reason that Haymitch has no friends. No one would ever put up with this. I pick up the knife and go back to my squirrel. “But the boy saw something in you at some point,” he continues, “and I’m hoping that maybe he’ll see that again.”

I put the knife down to look Haymitch in the eyes. “Would he even want to marry me?” It seems unlikely that a man who had a horrible divorce only six months prior would be jumping to go through that again. And Haymitch keeps alluding to supposed feelings Peeta had for me. That must be just to stroke my ego because everyone knows Peeta has been in love with Madge since we were kids. He confessed it to all of Panem.

“Maybe not,” Haymitch concedes. “But I’m starting to think he will be the easier one to convince.” It’s a remarkable ability, to insult someone and compliment them at the same time.

I sigh and pick the knife back up. “Can I have some time to think about it?” This might be the surest way to get him out of my face.

“I think I’ll be needing more liquor on Monday.” This might be the most subtle thing he’s said all day. I’m surprised he didn’t make a crass joke about it.

I simply nod. He takes the hint and stumbles away. The work is mostly the same as it’s been the past ten years, and so it’s easy to be distracted. I’m left with my thoughts, and they drift to a time before the Third Quarter Quell.

Peeta Mellark saved my family’s lives twice, once directly and once indirectly. I can still remember the bruise on his face the day after he tossed me a loaf of burnt bread as if it were the obvious choice. Plenty of people would have ignored the dying twelve year old. It’s easy enough to do in a district where very few go to bed with full stomachs. But Peeta threw the loaf. He didn’t even regret it when his mother hit him. It was a selfless act. It also ensured that I was unable to approach Peeta for years. How do you thank someone for saving your life when the act clearly meant more to you than it did to them?

I did become hyperaware of Peeta’s presence, however, in school. I don’t know if crush is exactly the right word because it sounds so frivolous and is meaningless without context. Since the day with the bread, Peeta was one of the constants in life. I could have told you where he sat in every class we had together, who he ate lunch with, how he did in the wrestling tournament. Which is why I was shocked when his name was pulled for the Reaping for the Quell. He was a baker’s son. There was never a reason to take out tesserae grain.

Peeta’s victory was nothing short of miraculous. The envelope read that, for the Third Quarter Quell, the districts would be reminded that they are totally dependent on the Capitol’s mercy. It was announced that the Cornucopia would contain no food, and that everything on the island would be poisoned, as to make it inedible. Neither of those elements was new, even the combination of them was.

What made the Quell truly sick, however, was the twist revealed after the tributes were already in the arena. Those who received enough money would get life-saving gifts of food from sponsors, yes. But those with the least amount of money, at the end of every twelve hours, would receive a gift. A poisoned gift. It was almost a mercy when Peeta’s district partner, Caltha, died at the Cornucopia. We spent the rest of the Games watching the clock that only the audience could see, and staring at the numbers ranking each tribute’s sponsors.

Peeta was in the lead for a good portion of the Games, especially at first when his confession of love was still ringing in the audience’s ears. I’ll admit, when he talked about a girl from back home, for a moment, I almost thought he was talking about me. But when he came back and never spoke me, it was made abundantly clear that he meant Madge. He spent so much time with her, no one was surprised when he finally worked up the nerve to pop the question. It didn’t matter who the girl was, however. Peeta’s words made you fall in love with her, and with him. Greasy Sae even took up a small collection for Peeta at the Hob, something I had never seen before.

That’s why it confused us so much when Haymitch never sent a parachute. As he remained silent, the growth of the money started to slow. It seemed less people wanted to give money to a mentor who would not spend it, so the cash started to flow towards the Careers, whose mentors spent the money regularly to make sure all of them had regular meals. Peeta benefited from that, but he never had anything of his own to contribute.

Then one night, the cameras picked up a conversation between two of the remaining Careers, suggesting that perhaps they should kill Peeta before the split, so that they didn’t inadvertently create their biggest threat. The very next time Peeta was reasonably alone, a silver parachute appeared and Peeta got the golden watch he still wears today. He lied and said it was his token that he had forgotten to take with him into the Arena. And he won the Games because he was the first, and only, one to figure out the rhythm.

I remember Peeta coming back and being different. Everyone did. But it was hard to spend much time dwelling on that when the first parcels came. This, more than anything, was the final push that my mother needed to come out of her depression. I think she struggled, continually, with the fact that life after my father’s death would always be a struggle for us. The extra comfort was enough that, for the first time, she told me which herbs I should find for her. She brewed herself a tea daily, and slowly she started taking on patients again.

Between the parcels and the extra income, my last year in school was much easier, and so, when it came time for me to graduate, we were able to scrape by without me taking a mining job. If my mother hadn’t recovered, that would not have been an option at all. As it was, I struck up an agreement with Sae that I would sell to her exclusively in exchange for a higher price. As Sae’s granddaughter has grown older, Sae’s attention has been more evenly divided, and so Sae brought me on as a full partner. She even taught me some of the tricks of her trade.  On days like today, when the girl is acting up, Sae knows she can leave me to stretch the soup just enough that we sell all of it, but not so much that we don’t have leftovers.

When she comes back to close for the day, I say goodbye to Sae and head to Prim and Rory’s house. Every Monday, my mother and I eat there. It has a very different feel from our home. Prim tries to keep fresh flowers in the house, even if they’re just dandelions. Buttercup, her cat, is always underfoot, and Prim is constantly conscious of not just the taste but the presentation of the food. Rory is always laughing, something my mother and I rarely do on our own. She has too many memories weighing her down, and I rarely laugh within the fence.

I’m not surprised when I see Posy setting the table. Besides losing a good amount of her chatter, Posy has become adverse to spending time alone. This means, of course, that she clings to Hazelle throughout the day, and so it’s no surprise when her mother sometimes shoos Posy out of the house. Rory and Prim’s place is much more inviting than Vick’s little apartment, and Gale and Madge mostly keep to themselves these days.

Dinner is mostly talk, a bit of food, and Posy is rather quiet until the subject of Saturday night comes up. “I don’t blame him. I don’t think he gets a wink of sleep. Will you pass me the bread?” She states it matter-of-factly, as if she were just reiterating something that we already know.

Prim passes the basket as she speaks. “What do you mean?”

“He’s constantly screaming at night. It would keep me up, if I didn’t have…” Posy blushes and turns away. It’s no secret that Prim’s been providing her with herbs that will knock her out cold, but no one ever mentions it. It’s hard to reconcile the baby I remember from the days when I first met Gale with the young woman in front of me now, but it’s as if the last six months have aged her thirty years. There’ll be times when she stops talking and stares, or when she abruptly excuses herself and leaves the room. I went out hunting with her once, and she couldn’t even pick up the bow. She just stared at it as if it were a dead child. Which, I suppose, _is_ what she was seeing.

“Do you think he needs something to help him sleep?” Prim asks.

“Because we have enough, I’m sure,” my mother adds, and the two of them exchange nods.

“I saw a stronger sleep medicine from the Capitol in his house when I was over there earlier this month. I don’t think it helps,” Posy says as she picks at the ends of her hair.

This isn’t the first time that I’ve wondered if the life of a Victor can’t exactly be explained. I fall into silence with Posy as the conversation turns because my mind is still lingering on Peeta. I’ve always wondered why his family never moved into the Village with him. I think he’s lonelier than Haymitch because I feel Haymitch can be friends with any bottle he meets.  Maybe there’s some truth to the old man’s words. Maybe some good is all Peeta needs.

But am I really the person to do so? Haymitch seems to think so, but the only person who actually listens to what Haymitch says is Peeta. And Posy. I’ve never really considered marriage an option because marriage means children, and children mean Reapings. I’ve had enough of those in my life. And while I’ve taken care of Prim in the past, I’ve never been responsible for an adult male. It seems like an awfully big order for me to fill, and I’m sure there’s someone who could do it better. Then again, Haymitch asked me, and Haymitch knows Peeta best.

I’m quiet for the rest of the night, but when Posy is leaving, I take her wrist and pull her aside. “Is it even possible for someone help Peeta?” I ask, searching her eyes.

She nods. “I think all he needs is someone who cares.” I let her go with that, but her words stick with me as I mull over my choices for the rest of the week. When Haymitch asks me again, though, I find it easy to say yes. I still think it’s a fool’s errand, but if I can help Peeta, I owe him that, especially after all he’s done for me. I’m in his debt, and this may be the best way to repay that.


	3. The Valley Song

_February_

My second wedding is decidedly less formal than my first. With Madge, it was all about the display. Part of that was because of Madge. She’s never been particularly flashy with money, but she has always grown up with more than most of us in District Twelve. As a result, she had certain expectations about how the wedding would go, and because the money was there, I was happy to meet them. Honestly, I was happy to have this new start on life. I invited almost everyone I knew in the district, and spent a good amount of money on the trappings of it all.

But, as much as I tried to forget I was a Victor for the day, it was impossible when the gifts came on the train. Several of the district mayors sent presents to the Undersees, but the vast majority was from the Capitol. Most of my fellow Victors sent tokens from their respective districts, trinkets that mean something in their respective marriage ceremonies. Those didn’t taint the day as much, though they did garner some odd stares from my district guests who see little of life outside the fence. There was also a stack of gifts from people I had never met, Capitol citizens who felt they knew me well enough to send sex toys and lingerie.  Madge and I disposed of those as discreetly as we could. What we could not get rid of, however, was the gift from Snow.

He paid for all of the flowers for the wedding. Dozens and dozens of red roses, most of them came from his personal garden. The cameras that came with them ate the display up. Our president is so generous. Our president is so kind. Our president only wants to see our Victors happy. I knew enough of the fate of Victors at that point that my knuckles whitened around my fork as they spun their lies at dinner.

My speech at that wedding reflected that anger, perhaps too much. I talked about how proud I was of the district, and how the people of Twelve could do _anything_ if only they set their minds to it. I talked about how the district made me who I was, and then I remembered that perhaps it would be best to bring up my bride. I referred to Madge as my diamond from the coal, but the description never quite fit. Madge was much warmer than any cold jewel could be.

This wedding is stripped of that entire pretense. Neither Haymitch nor I have notified the Capitol of the wedding, and so they will only know when the marriage license goes through the system. There has been some speculation about the divorce, and this will only add fuel to the fire. In five months, maybe I will have a good story to tell. Right now, I have decided not to give anything away. We all deserve a bit of quiet and calm.

Instead of having an elaborate affair, Katniss and I go to the Justice Building with just Haymitch and Prim. A few forms signed, including the prenuptial agreement all Victors must sign, a peck on the lips, and we are married.  We walk in silence back to the Village.

My family—that is, my parents, Erik and his wife Susan, and Levi and his wife, Delly—is already there, as is Katniss’s mother. Posy and Sae will join us as well. I asked Katniss if she wanted to invite anyone else, and she simply shook her head. It took me a second to remember that the only people she really hung out with at school were _him_ and _her_. I would feel guilty, but I cannot deal with that betrayal today.

It hurts less than it did, seven months ago. The house is exactly the same as it was before Madge moved in, with the exception of an open bottle of liquor in the cabinet above the sink. What her father did not take away, I arranged to be burned. I ordered new sheets, hung new curtains, and cleaned the entire place. The paintings I had of her in the studio are gone. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them, so I gave them to Posy, trusting her to get them out of my sight and into the right hands. I couldn’t destroy something beautiful, even if it caused me that much pain.

There are days where the ache is unbearable. The day when I found out that she was pregnant with his child, for one, and the day when I found out that Posy’s token was a gift from Madge. The Victory Tour was nigh unbearable because I was confronted with the bad memories of my own Tour and with the faces of every mayor, every Capitol citizen as they asked, “What happened with your wife?” The nightmares were bad enough that I simply did not sleep.

I walk silently back from the Justice Building, stewing in these thoughts. I try to push away the darkness as Katniss and I near the house. Katniss is not Madge, after all. In fact, she is nearly Madge’s opposite in so many ways. I clear my throat slightly and say, “May I pick you up?”

She looks startled at the request. It’s an old custom, but I want to create new memories. She pauses for a second and searches my face for something. Then she nods, and I place my arms under her back and her knees. She’s much more solid and sturdy than Madge. Her jacket bunches up in my arms, and underneath it, her white dress is simple, and her hair is in one of her mother’s elaborate braids. She refuses to look away from me as Levi opens the door, but something in her eyes suggests that she’s not quite comfortable in this vulnerable position.

I let her feet go, and she stands up properly so we can make our way to the fire. We both take off our coats somewhat clumsily, our fingers slightly numb from the cold. The loaf of bread I made earlier is sitting next to the fireplace, alongside the logs for the fire. Katniss inspects the bread and gasps, and I give her a little smile when she looks back at me. It’s identical to the loaf I threw to her when we were children, with raisins and nuts. The only difference is that this one is not burnt yet.

Katniss lights the fire, and I have to admire the way that the flames dance on her face. They highlight her cheekbones and her eyes, the shadows accentuating her serious expression. Her hem is resting in the soot, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The image is striking enough that, for a moment, I want to drop everything and sketch her. But I won’t let myself be derailed by these emotions.

As she leans forward to add more kindling, the flames jump towards her and she snatches her hand back. She’s not badly burnt, but the skin on her fingers is red and inflamed. Without thinking, I take her hand and kiss her fingers. She stills completely, but all the emotion on her face is locked away. I can hear Delly clucking her tongue behind me, and I become conscious of the fact that we are not alone. I drop Katniss’s hand quickly, and add a log to the fire. We stoke it without further comment.

 As I pick up the knife to cut the bread, Prim starts to sing “The Valley Song.” Her voice is nothing like her sister’s. It’s crisper, and a bit thin on the high notes. But when the others join in, the sound is much fuller, and it’s harder to pick out the flaws in any one voice, even though I know for a fact that Erik is as tone deaf as I am. Katniss’s forehead crinkles and her nose scrunches up as she toasts her piece, and she offers it to me with no small amount of pride twinkling in her grey eyes. I take a small bite and offer her mine. She chews it, and then joins in to the song.

She’s grown up, and it resonates in her voice. When I first heard her sing, and became infatuated with her as only a six year old boy can be, she was far from perfect, but her raw talent and confidence carried her through the song, and we were all amazed. Now, she doesn’t push the notes in her giddiness to show off her knowledge. Her voice dwells on each note, letting it resonant throughout her body. My family is caught off guard by the sound, and most of them stop singing. Delly has to stop, but when I look at her, I realize it’s because she has a sloppy grin on her face.

 _Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,_  
Angels in Heaven know I love you,  
Know I love you, dear, know I love you,  
Angels in Heaven know I love you.

We don’t dance after the Toasting, or even sit around the fire. We eat. My father baked a chicken pot pie, and there are at least three more pies at dessert. There’s a four-tiered wedding cake, even though there are only thirteen of us here. There are muffins and rolls and croissants and I’m surprised there was enough room in the bakery to fit all of this and the daily needs of the store. What we don’t eat immediately, we’ll give away or store in the ice box, but it still feels extravagant in a completely different way from the large party.

Katniss is distracting as she eats. She eats slowly and puts her knife and fork down between each bite. She also takes small bites. She’ll even cut a piece of pie in half in order to save some for later. It’s not about vanity, though, as I know from experience that eating more slowly can help you feel fuller faster. It will take some time for her to break those habits, to know that she’ll never be hungry again. The bites she does take, however, she savors, and she should never lose that. Sometimes, when she tastes something particularly good, like a cheese bun or a piece of cheesecake, a small moan will escape from the back of her throat. I find making a list of other things she’ll like before I remember that I won’t be baking often enough to worry about it.

 Katniss still holds enough of my attention that I only register that my mother is speaking when she is mid-rant. “—Of course, she’s nothing like the Undersee girl, but I still think he’s settling, do you think? Though I’m not sure she wants to be here either.” She sips on the glass of wine imported from District One, holding her pinky out. For all her airs, my mother would not last a second in the Capitol, and I have to make a note that Posy doesn’t pick up her bad habits. How she can sit at my table and insult my wife on the day of my wedding is beyond me.

My father takes the glass out of her hand to cut her off. When we were little, I always thought of him as my hero, but now I can see how he continually enables her by making excuses all of the time. Sure enough, he has one for this situation, too. “Please excuse Linnea; she’s just very drunk right now. And I think that’s a sign for us to be heading home.” He smiles charmingly at the Everdeens, and I think I see Prim kick Katniss under the table to stop here from speaking. My father grabs their jackets swiftly, and he refuses three times to take some of the leftovers. He won’t even take them for the shop when I offer them, saying he won’t be able to sell them when they’re two days old. I decide that we can handle the extra cake if it means that getting my mother away from here. Right now, she’s looking over Posy with that look that foretells all of her tongue-lashings.

Erik and his wife, and Delly and Levi, leave shortly after, as do Sae and Haymitch. The Everdeens stay a bit longer. Prim seems to be having a serious conversation with Katniss, and Mrs. Everdeen is asking Posy about her sleep medicines. I tried the local aids when I was younger, but eventually, I grew resistant to them. I stand awkwardly without a purpose in my own living room, until I decide to gather up what’s left of the food and store it. I keep the cheese buns out, since Katniss seemed to like those, and freeze the rest. I stack the dishes neatly in the sink. I’ll deal with those in the morning.

When I’m done, everyone has gone, and Katniss is leaning against the doorframe, watching me work. “My family sends their congratulations.” I should have said goodnight to my in-laws, but they’re gone now. “And Posy wants to talk to you when she gets a chance. But I told them all I was tired, and so they left.” She pauses and stands up straight. “Shall we go to bed then?”

“Yes, of course.” I lead her down the hall and up the stairs. I take the steps faster than Katniss because I know the way. She touches the banister gingerly, and steps on the carpet lightly, as if she feels like she doesn’t belong. I want her to feel at home because I want her to have a comfortable life.  But I refuse to think that we’ll be in anything more a superficial relationship. I just can’t win someone and lose her again.

We when reach the top of the stairs, I stop to give her a standing tour. “This door in front of us is just a storage room, but you’re not going to need anything from there or the attic. The bedroom on the right is my studio, and the second door is the main bathroom. There’s a full bath in my room, though, so that one can be yours.” I start to move forward, and I tap the door on the left. “That is my room, and this,” I say, stopping in front of the only door left on the second story, “is yours.”

Katniss stops in front of me. “Why do we need separate rooms?”

I rub the back of my neck. “I have horrible nightmares. Madge and I tried sharing a room, but she didn’t get any sleep at all. So it’s better if only one of us is constantly exhausted. There’s no sense in keeping you up. This is the best solution, really. You’ll get your own space, and…” I have to stop there because Katniss is taking out the braids and her hair is just as long as I imagined it would be.

She looks at me, and I swear I can see a smirk for a fraction of a second before she second guesses herself. “I suppose we’re going to bed, then.” I nod slowly, and move to turn around. Somehow it is going to be that much lonelier knowing that she will be on the opposite side of the wall, but this is all for the best. After all, the nightmares were one of Madge’s biggest complaints, and so at least the wall should muffle the sound a bit.

She speaks again before I can walk away. “Peeta. Aren’t you… aren’t you coming in?” I pivot back towards her, and I can see the uncertainty on her face. And then it slowly dawns on me, exactly why she asked about the separate rooms earlier. She wants us to sleep together in the metaphorical sense. I swallow nervously.

 Out of the victors, I am most definitely the most virginal. The Capitol, as much as they like to fawn over me and my story of true love, did not love me enough to want to fuck a boy with a missing leg. Finnick has heard that Snow was livid when he was told that the doctors couldn’t save my leg. Finnick has also heard that Haymitch was the one that made the call, before Snow could. I’m not sure  I believe either of those stories, but the end result is the same. I’ve never been sold to the highest bidder to be arm candy, and I can’t say I’m sorry about that.

I never dated before the Games, and after the Games, when Katniss and Gale were together, I didn’t feel like I could be with anyone else. As the years passed, I began to love Madge. She was my first, though I was not hers. It’s hard now to look back and not wonder if she had been with Gale already by that point, or if they had started their affair after the wedding. I don’t want to know; either option is horrible. Going in, however, I didn’t know that. I thought Madge was as inexperienced as I was.

Katniss on the other hand… I know she’s been with Gale. I’ve accepted that fact, though I try not to think of it very often. What gets me through it all is the knowledge that I _will_ be her last. I’m determined to be. There’s a sense of balance to it. He has Madge, and I have Katniss.  It’s a crude way of looking at them, but the world makes sense again. There is balance now, even in this dark place.

I had never expected Katniss to bring up sex this early. I thought it would come later, when we became more comfortable with each other. I’ve always wanted children, but I wasn’t going to force that on Katniss, not until she was ready. But with her simple little invitation, I can already feel myself hardening. Twenty two years is a very long time to wait.

I don’t move, though, until I’m sure she wants this, too. “Are you sure?”

She lifts her head and looks me in the eye. There’s a fleck of worry there, but mostly her eyes are steeled confidence. She says softly, “Peeta. This is my wedding night. I want to be with you.”

Never has a more seductive sentence been spoken. She walks towards her bed, and I follow behind her, closing the door as I cross the threshold. Everything in this room is completely new. Not a single splinter or thread is Madge’s, and I repainted the walls. The paintings on the walls are older, from the time after my Games, but Madge had never seen these. I wanted to give Katniss room to grow without the shadows of Madge looming on the walls. For a part of me, no matter how small, wants to call this Madge’s room.

Sleeping in different rooms didn’t help our marriage any. We would have sex occasionally, but most of the time, it was a swift peck on the cheek and then we were off to our separate corners. Sex moved from a need to a want, at least for her, and she was never a very active participant. She wasn’t saying the wrong name, but I could almost tell she wasn’t truly in the moment with me. Or perhaps I’m projecting what I now know onto the past. I don’t know when she started sleeping with Gale. I just know when she stopped sleeping with me, nine months and fourteen days ago. It has been long enough that I’m not sure how I will stack up to what I’m sure is Gale’s legendary stamina.

I try to push those thoughts away. There’s a willing woman who I’ve wanted for years standing in front of me. Katniss pulls her hair over her shoulder as she asks, “Would you mind unzipping this dress?”

I shake my head, and move the zipper slowly. It catches on the track, and while I fix it, I can feel Katniss shiver at my touch. Her olive skin is flawless and inviting, but the view from behind is nothing compared to that I see when she steps out and turns around.

Katniss is small, but she is not delicate. Rather, her arms and legs are toned muscles that elongate her frame. She is covered by a white lace bra and matching panties. The fabric stands in large contrast to her ashen skin, and my fingers are itching to take it off. She seems to want to cover herself, and so I cross towards her.

I kiss her lightly on the lips, but her response is tentative. I pull away and ask again, “Are you sure you want to do this?” Since I’m still wearing my pants, she would have to look straight down between us to see how much I do.

She nods. “It’s just… different.” This time, she leans forward, and she kisses me. I coax her to open her lips with my tongue, and she lets me in. I plunge deeply into her mouth, stroking her tongue with mine. Hormones I thought I had conquered rush through my veins, and I realize the only thing holding us back is my outfit.

“Sit down on the bed,” I tell her softly. I can see her start to ask why, but then she closes her mouth.  She takes down the bedspread and perches on the edge. I wish I could look at her as I unbutton my shirt, but I’m too easily distracted. I lay my clothes on the bedside chair so I can pick them up later. My nerves get the best of me, though, when it comes to my belt.

Katniss hasn’t seen my prosthetic before. Madge always thought it was too cold, too metallic, and suddenly I feel subconscious again. My hands waver for a moment at my unbuttoned trousers before I decide that Katniss is going to see it at some point. I kick off my shoes and pull down my pants, exposing me, all of me, to Katniss for the first time.

Her eyes flicker between my leg and my erection, like she doesn’t know which one to comment on first. I don’t give her time to do either. Instead, I cross towards her and lean over the bed so that she has to lie down. I kiss her, and she responses more quickly this time.

Katniss moves back as I crawl onto the bed, and I take advantage of her exposed back to release her bra. When it falls down, I take one of her breasts in my palm and knead it until I feel the nipple start to pebble. I repeat my ministrations on the other side, and Katniss’s mouth moves from a smile to something decidedly less defined. A little “oh” escapes from her lips, and I, too, have to smile.

My hand travels further south, over her stomach and towards the line of her underwear. Rubbing my thumb under the fabric, I ask, “May I?” She nods, and I slide the fabric down. Running my hand over her, she feels ready enough, so I stroke myself once before positioning. She bites her lip and nods one last time, and I thrust in.

It’s not smooth, as I imagined that it would be. I can feel a moment of resistance,  and the blockage gives way before I even have a chance to stop moving. “Katniss! I’m so sorry, I thought—“ My face is flushing furiously. I feel humiliated for not thinking of this in advance. It never even crossed my mind that she might still be a virgin. I’m ready to stop and pull out when she stops and holds me in place.

“It’s okay, Peeta. Just, hold on, for a second. Let me get used to it. Please?” Her voice is tight, and her eyes are watering. I rest my head on her shoulder in defeat. She traces some unidentifiable pattern on my shoulders, and then she nods her head.

I go slowly, and I try to keep my thrusts shallow as to not disturb her more. But the sensation is too much for me. She’s tight and warm and tight, and I lose myself on the third stroke. Katniss doesn’t say anything, but I pull away once I am done.

“Katniss, are you okay?” There’s a trail of evidence on her thigh, and I have to look away. I should have known. I should have asked.

“It was uncomfortable,” she says slowly. I hang my head. This is just going to speed the inevitable decay, isn’t it, until the moment she leaves me. “But I’m sure it will be better tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Right. We’re married now, and I can do this again. I look back at her and stand up. I rub the back of my neck. “Well, like I said, the bathroom is across the hall if you want to clean up.” I gesture towards her leg, and she looks down. She blushes when she sees what I mean. “And I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.” I lean down and peck her lightly on the cheek, but the moment is gone and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable again. I grab my clothes and head over to my room.

I try not to pay attention, but I hear her start up the shower and I wonder if I should apologize. But what can I even say in a situation like this? I want a chance to do it over, but it’s been a long day, and I only had one shot at that particular moment. I don’t know how I could have made it better, either, because sex with Madge was a lopsided conversation. Any time I asked if something was good, she would just nod and say it was okay. She had no initiative at all in the bedroom. At least Katniss told me the truth, that it hurt this first time. But she’s not going to be able to tell me what makes her sing because she’s such a novice herself. 

I decide to take a shower before I head to bed, hoping that will calm me down and rinse away this feeling of failure. Maybe the water will purge this disaster from my skin so that it doesn’t star in my nightmares tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. Last of the intro chapters and last of Peeta's POV, at least for awhile. They're finally married, even if it's awkward and uncomfortable now.


	4. Wild Mountain Thyme

_February_

I don’t feel as sore as I expected I would when I wake up. It feels different, but it’s not so uncomfortable. Just new. That’s the best way to describe everything that’s going on, actually. My bedroom here is almost the complete opposite of the one at my mother’s house. The bed offers at least three inches of soft covers to a mattress already eight inches deep. But I leave the security of my bed to inspect the room at large. On each of the inside walls, there is a painting. All three walls are orange, and each of the paintings incorporates that color into the scene. All of them depict the market square, from the vantage point of the bakery. The script on the windows is faintly visible in reverse, the red letters reminding the view that this moment is captured on the inside.

On the east wall, there is a spring sunrise, a few birds fluttering while the street as a whole stays dark. Peeta has captured perfectly, in my mind, the way that looking out into darkness is difficult when you stand in the light. The shadows are long, and the details are slightly blurry. This is not the case in the painting on the north wall. Here, the sun is shining brightly, and the street is full of summer midday traffic. I can spot some people I know from the backs of their heads. There’s Darius the Peacekeeper’s flash of red hair, and a curvy blond woman that must be Delly. And, just at the edge of the frame, there is a woman in a brown hunting jacket with a braid standing next to a woman with long blond hair flowing down her back. There seems to be a breeze in the painting, and so a brown paper bag lifts up on the street while a child chases it.

The last painting, the one on the west wall, is of an autumn sunset. Like the one on the east wall, it uses orange rays to light up the scene. Here, however, the houses on the street are lit up, and there are families in the window around the various tables. It’s just as pretty as the other pictures, but it makes me wonder why Peeta wasn’t around a table himself when he saw this.

Perhaps I’m reading too much into it. I turn away.

There are paintings everywhere in the house, almost too many to count. They don’t seem to be arranged around any subject, at least as far as I can tell. Rather, there’s a balance based on color. The walls in each room are painted a certain color, and the paintings match. My room is orange.

The upstairs hallway is green, and right outside my door, there’s a huge dandelion. I stare at it in shock for at least five minutes. He can’t have known that is the flower I associate with him the most. The day after Peeta tossed me the bread, I saw him with the huge bruise on his face that he claimed came from roughhousing with his brothers. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything at that moment, so I looked down. When I saw a dandelion, I picked it up. Since that day, I can’t see the flower without thinking of him.

It’s not very early in the morning, but I don’t know how well Peeta slept, or if he’s still asleep. I know that he did have nightmares through most of the night because, when they woke me, I couldn’t fall back into sleep for at least an hour. I wonder how much good separate rooms are doing us if neither of us is sleeping, but I don’t see an alternative that Peeta will like.

He was shy last night, like a puppy that just wanted to be loved. I don’t know how that will last. I can’t hear him anywhere in the house, so I head down to the kitchen. There’s a stack of those cheese buns on the table with a note. _Eat these, or else they’ll go bad._ There’s nothing there to suggest where he’s gone or what he’s doing. I pick one up and take a bite. It’s just as delicious as it was last night, though the herbs are more noticeable now that it’s cooled. I put another one in my pocket from lunch later.

The weather is flawless. The sun sparkles through the yellow curtains, and though it must be bitterly cold, there’s not a cloud or flake in sight. It will be a great day for hunting. I go upstairs and grab my gear, slipping into my father’s jacket and the gloves Prim knit for me last year. The sleeves of the jacket are worn in two places, one where my elbows meet the fabric, and another spot slightly lower where my father’s elbows were. The sleeves are also cuffed so that I can shoot straighter. This jacket is thirty years old, and it’s seen better days, but I still can’t bear to throw it out.

I wait to put on the boots until I reach the front door, so I don’t track mud throughout the house. The walk to the fence is longer now, but I take the side streets so that no one stops me. It’s not exactly a secret where I’m going, but I don’t want to get Peeta in trouble with the Peacekeepers. He’s already seen them enough for one lifetime. I’m also rather attached to my heartbeat. I would hate to lose it. I test the fence as always to make sure it’s not on, and then I slip under the hole.

I feel more aware of my body as I move through the woods. I’ve always been conscious of the sounds that I make when walking, and how to minimize the crunch of the undergrowth under my feet, but today I am aware of an entirely new class of muscles. I’m aware of a different way that my legs and my arms can move. It’s distracting, but not because of the actual specifics of what happened last night. Rather, it’s the potential that has me curious. I’ve experimented before with my own fingers, but I have a feeling that, with time, the new sensation will dwarf that small release. Maybe there were perks to be married that I overlooked.

Because my attention span is shortened, I don’t notice a few squirrels until it is too late to shoot them. I shake my head so that the snow caught in my braid falls into my face and down my back. The cold wakes me up, and I’m able to bag a peasant before I call it a day. I pick some wild thyme on the way back. Sae may be able to couple the two for a lighter soup.

When I reach the Hob, Sae is smiling at me. “And how is the new Mrs. Mellark?” My ears are burning from the change in temperature, but now I can feel my face heating up as well. Sae chuckles. “Well, look at that. I never thought you would be a blushing bride, Katniss.”

“It’s just a good morning, is all,” I say, coming around the counter. “Though it would have been better if I had been able to bag a bit more game.”

Sae is still smirking. “I’m sure, dear. After all, it is quite a distraction, being married and all.” I swat her with my glove, but that doesn’t deter her.

In fact, all of my interactions as the day continues fall into one of two categories. There are those that congratulate me, and there are those who come to make jokes at my expense. The first group seems to respect my decision to be here at the Hob even after I have technically married into money. The truth is that I don’t know what I would do with myself if I weren’t here. I’ve got Seam in my blood, and the thought of not working leaves me feeling empty. What would I do with my day? I would love to spend the entire day in the woods, but that’s not an option. This is. Besides, Sae needs me. As she gets older, she relies more on me to make sure that everything goes smoothly. So I can handle those that come to wish me well.

The conversations about my sex life, on the other hand, are unbearable. I’m a private person, and so the entire topic is uncomfortable for me. Their comments run the entire range, too, from subtle innuendo to more explicit questions about size and stamina.  At some point, Sae finally realizes how uneasy I truly am, but it’s not soon enough. My cheeks are still flushed as I head out for the night. Apparently I am as “pure” as everyone was suggesting.

When I get back to the house, the only sign of Peeta is the missing plate of cheese buns. It’s in the sink, so I wash it with warm water. I let the tap run for a bit, just grateful to be able to warm my fingers without worrying about using all the hot water.

It’s when I’m drying my hands that I notice another note on the table. This one reads, _There are some chicken dumplings in the oven, keeping warm_. I stop and look around, but of course there’s no one here in the kitchen. I can’t hear any movement upstairs, either, which means he must not be in the house. Hopefully he’s not getting into a brawl somewhere. That would be a lovely way to mark my first full day as his wife. I’m already doing a wonderful job, having lost my husband.

I take a portion of the dumplings and put the rest in the ice box. It is still reasonably warm, so that at least means that Peeta has been here in the recent past. I take a bite and ponder where he might be, but it’s a little hard to concentrate when the food is so rich. The gravy has saturated the dumplings, but it’s not so heavy that my chest feels congested just chewing it. The chicken is at that sweet spot where it separates easily without a knife, but still stays in place with only a fork. I pick out the peas and the carrots and eat those last, popping each one individually into my mouth. This might just be better than the chicken pot pie from last night, though the two are similar. I never thought about the implications marrying the baker’s son would have in regards to my diet, but I have already been better fed in the past thirty some hours than I have my entire life.

After I wash my dishes, I turn back to the task of finding Peeta. He’s not in any of the rooms downstairs. When I reach his room, the door is open just a crack, but the light isn’t on and there isn’t a sign of life. I don’t want to intrude further. Peeta made very clear last night that his room was his private domain, and, though it came as a bit of a shock, if that’s the way that he wants this to be, I can respect that. The doors to the storage room and the studio are both closed, and since I don’t hear any motion behind either, I decide to simply skip a thorough check. Peeta must have made dinner and gone out, and I try not to dwell on that too much. It could be harmless—he could have gone to check on Posy or Haymitch. Or he could be getting into trouble. I hope someone would think to come here and tell me if that were the case.

I take off my hunting gear once I’m in my room, and let out my braid. There’s a loose pair of pants and a shirt in one of the drawers, and I put them on. The room is warm, especially under all of the blankets, but last night I kicked some of them off during my restless sleep. While a nightgown looks pretty, it does nothing to keep my feet from getting cold.

I’m only halfway through brushing my hair when I hear a few clicks in the hall and a knock on the door. “Katniss, may I come in?” It seems Peeta was in the house all along.

“Sure,” I call, putting the brush down. The door is open, and Peeta enters the room. Something looks wrong. There are bags under his eyes, and some kind of white substance on his knuckles. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are slightly narrowed. They relax once he sees me, but the agitated posture of his body doesn’t completely leave him as he closes the door behind him. He’s merely wearing a robe, and judging by the way it gaps, he might not be wearing anything underneath it.

“How are you feeling?” He says, looking from my face to my breasts to the juncture of my thighs and then back up again.

I can feel a bit of heat rising to my face even though his gaze is merely clinical, but I manage to keep my voice calm. “Better.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “Would you be amendable to trying again, then?” His words are so stiff, I almost have to laugh. But instead, I simply nod. Before I can register it, Peeta lunges in for the kill.

This is not the sweet, demure Peeta of last night. No, this kiss is insistent, and he’s pulling me off of the bed and into a standing position. One of his hands fists in my hair, and the other starts to push my makeshift sleepwear down my legs. For a moment, I’m lost as to what I should do with my hands, but I settle on helping him work on my pants.

That being accomplished, he heads towards the foot of the bed, forcing me to step out of my pants and walk backwards.  When I feel my knees hit the back of the bed, I sit down and lie back. The kisses are hot and needy, and his lips are slightly open. Feeling bold, I flick my tongue out, which results in a ruthless invasion of my mouth. Peeta seems determined to know the feel of my mouth better than I do. He’s pushing me into the mattress far enough that there is no space between us. His second hand has moved to right behind my ear, and he’s holding my head in place. I can’t complain, however, because I feel more alive now than I ever have.

Abruptly, he pulls away, and strips his robe off. He is rock hard, and I have to swallow hard when I see his length. I have no means of comparison, naturally, but in the light, I can see why last night hurt so much. The idea of that appendage being inside of me again makes me nervous, but Peeta doesn’t allow me to think. He comes back towards me, and I scoot back so that he can climb on top of me. He stays on his knees, pulling my legs up around me. He positions himself and checks my face once before slamming in. At the same time, he takes my bottom lip between my teeth and bites. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, but it is enough to cause me to yelp just a bit.

If I thought I was aware of my body earlier, I was obviously mistaken. Now, I am all sensation. He glides in and out of me much easier tonight because I am more moist. It is almost too much, and, for the second time, I wonder if I will be able to find release. Peeta pounds into me relentlessly as his mouth moves from mine down my neck, leaving hot, wet kisses behind. Suddenly, he seizes one of my breasts in his mouth and begins to suck. The sensation is so foreign, but it also feels a bit naughty. I squirm a bit, rolling my hips, and he moans my name.

Despite Peeta’s approach, I am not getting any closer to the cliff I’ve explored on my own. Feeling bold, I sneak my hand down to rub myself. I’m tracing circles when Peeta abruptly takes my hands and holds them above my head.  I whimper, and he moves his other hand down to try and mimic my actions. His moves are too general, long strokes up and down with a slight whirl at the top as he changes direction. It’s not enough localized stimulation, and his thrusts are getting more erratic so I know his end is comng too soon.

He takes the neglected breast in his mouth, and I wish I could find the voice to tell him that he’s not doing enough. I want to be able to cover his hand with mine and show him exactly how to make me fall apart, but I have no idea how he’ll take that. So, instead, I close my eyes and imagine tutoring him in the language of my body. I imagine his thick fingers repeating the familiar motions, using one hand at my entrance and another to caress my center.  The fantasy is just enough to tip me over the edge. I don’t fall very far, but as my walls clench, he swears and twitches deep inside me. He collapses on top of me, and I realize how uneven our breathing is.

Peeta doesn’t pull away until I open my eyes again. Even then, he merely pulls out and sits back on his knees. “Where were you today?” he asks. I’m hurt by his tone. It’s a seemingly innocent question, but somehow he makes it an interrogation. I’m not expecting deep confessions of love, but it would be nice if he would just bask in the moment.

“I went hunting, and then I was at the Hob,” I say, propping myself up on my elbows. It’s not exactly a secret, what I do for a living, but the Peacekeepers’ fondness for game has kept me out of trouble. “And where were you?”

He ignores my question. “I don’t want you doing that anymore,” he states, as if the conversation is over because his conclusion is obvious and his word is final.

 _I_ find it ridiculously absurd, though. “Why?”

“Because you don’t need to anymore. And I don’t like you going _there_.” He stands up and pulls the robe back on. There’s an implication in the word there, like the Seam is dirty. Or, I realize, like the Hob is too close to his favorite couple. I wonder what excuses Madge used when she went to meet Gale. But I’m not her, and I’ve done nothing wrong.

I pull the sheet up to my armpits and sit up. “Sae needs me. How else is she going to run that stall, without meat? I’m not going to let her go under because you don’t like me working or hanging out at the Hob.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sure there is someone else who can hunt. It’s hardly a rare skill.” I have to raise an eyebrow at that. I saw him attempting to use a bow and arrow during training for the Quell. He would starve if he had to hunt.

“No, there isn’t,” I insist. “Because one of the options is a seventeen-year-old girl who can’t pick up a bow and arrow without flashbacks anymore, and the other is busy in the mines every day.” What does he think, that the Seam has an overflow of hunters? He should know better. It’s not like there are many bakers in business here.

“Do you go hunting with him, then?” Peeta says abruptly. It takes me a second to follow his train of thought, and then I am livid.

“I haven’t seen _him_ ,” I mock Peeta’s tone, “since the Harvest Festival, and we haven’t gone hunting together since right after he got married.”

Peeta’s face doesn’t look like he quite believes me, but he turns away before he can say what’s really on his mind. “It doesn’t matter. I want you to stay here.”

“I’m not going to be a housewife, Peeta.” I will hold my ground on this point, if only because I would die of boredom if I were stuck anywhere alone. This connects back to my earlier question. “And exactly where were _you_ today?”

“I went to the bakery in the morning to help my father open, and then I went to my studio to paint.” He states this like it’s something that I should know.

“Oh, then I’m sure you fed plenty of hungry mouths.” While the bakery sells food, it is out of the price range of most of the district. I momentarily worry that I’ve crossed a line, but I feel like if Haymitch had really wanted someone demure, he would have found her.

“Don’t you _dare_ act like you know what you’re talking about, like you have any idea what it’s like to be me,” he growls, and he walks out, slamming both my door and his. When I hear the water of his shower running, I go to the large bathroom to clean myself up. I leave, and knock on his door. I feel like this is a fight that should be resolved before morning. He doesn’t answer, though, so I go to my room and try to sleep through the chorus of Peeta’s nightmares. I can’t even approach sleep.

He’s noisy when he leaves for the bakery. His walk is heavy, and every step he makes clicks with the sound of the prosthetic. He also is perhaps a bit too rough with everything he touches. The plates ring a little when he puts them in the sink, and he shuts the cabinet doors abruptly. When I hear the lock turn from the outside, I jump out of bed and head directly to the studio.

It is nothing like I imagined it would be. There is life and paint everywhere. There are sections of the wall where it looks like he just smeared some paint to get the color exactly right, and though there is a tarp on the floor, it is still covered in flecks. The room seems bright even though I can see know windows. When I look up, I discover why. There are several windows installed into the ceiling, and the sun shines directly through them, bathing the whole room in light.

The most distinguishing feature of the room is the sheer volume of the paintings. If the house is full, then this room is overflowing. In many ways, this must be like walking into Peeta’s mind. There are some sweet ones in the same style as the paintings on display in the house, a few sketches and portraits, but the vast majority of them are scenes from the Games or from what must be his nightmares. I hate them all. They are so realistic that I can feel the pain and anger behind each stroke. For the first time, I wonder what I have really gotten myself into. Peeta’s issues obviously run much deeper than Madge’s betrayal.

I slowly back out of the room, as if Peeta’s emotions were contagious. I can’t let him know that I was in here. The room is so private and intimate, his sanctuary. He would be furious. As I make my way out, I see a series that was hidden by the door as I walked in. They’re the sisters of the dandelion in the hall. There’s a lily, some thyme, a bundle of larkspur, a primrose, some caltha, and a katniss flower.

I run my finger along the canvas, tracing the curves of the petals. He’s not done yet with the katnisss. In fact, it looks like he made a mistake because  there’s a black stroke emitting from the center, as if he were distracted while painting. But this flowers are so lovely, I know there has to be some good in Peeta. I contemplate this thought while I get dressed to hunt and eat. Maybe if I can just get him to calm down, things could be good again. I don’t want to fight today, though, so I need to leave before he returns.

On impulse, after I eat the muffin he laid out earlier, I take the card on the table.  I scribble, _Gone hunting, but I’ll tell Sae I can’t work the stall anymore_. Maybe if I just give a little more, he’ll be okay. I’m going to have to learn to compromise.


	5. Aura Lea

_April_

Peeta and I lead almost two entirely separate lives. He doesn’t bring up my work again after that second night, but I develop the habit of leaving while he’s gone, anyway. I’ll then come back and shower. Most days, I will go visiting. Posy is lonely, even with her mother there, and so I find herself at her house most often. Peeta seems less irritated on those days because I’m closer. When I visit my mother or Prim, he is more likely to be terse with me. I try to not let it get to me, but after that first fight, I find it better to just let him win. We both sleep better on those nights.

On the days I don’t spend in the house, I can still tell how Peeta has spent the time by how he treats me that night. Sometimes it’s rougher, when the nightmares have turned into day terrors and he can’t paint anything but scenes from the Games.  If I’m in the house on one of those days, I can hear him tipping over paint cans and tearing canvas. It’s not as uneven as that second night, and now I almost prefer those nights. Those are the nights where I don’t have to constantly worry how I feel, or how Peeta feels, because it is obvious. I can simply let go, and I am more likely to thoroughly enjoy those nights because I am not anxious.

I don’t always enjoy myself completely, but it’s not because Peeta is selfish, per se. He just doesn’t seem to know what to do with my body, and he doesn’t spend time studying.  It’s part of his unspoken rule about not getting too close, I suppose. It leaves me frustrated more nights than not, and I have to finish myself after he leaves. I can’t bring it up during the day, however, because even though we get as close as physically possible at night, we are nearly strangers during the day.

At other times, the night is much sweeter. More often than not, I will know it’s been a good day because Peeta will eat dinner with me. Most of the time, he cooks something and leaves it in the oven for me, though I will sometimes bring some game home and make it myself. On the better days, however, he’ll prepare something more elaborate. A full dessert, perhaps, or a vegetable with a new glaze. We don’t talk much during these dinners, but they do chip away at the feeling of isolation.

After the dishes are done, we’ll go to bed, and Peeta will run his lips along my neck, and then he will stroke me until I am damp. Then he will slide in, and neither of us will look away as he slowly pulls in and out. We’re both silent here, too, but sometimes he will hit a spot deep inside, and I will have to moan.  Peeta seems to like that, as his next thrust will be a little bit harder and deeper.

Tonight is one of those nights, but it’s not quite the same. Peeta is sitting a little higher on my body, and we are better aligned. He’s not so much thrusting as he is moving up and down, but the motion rubs against my most sensitive area every time. His hands float over my body, touching my breast and the back of my neck, winding a strand of hair around his finger. Soon, I am just as far gone as he is.

 I feel like a bow that Peeta is stringing tight enough that I am ready to snap. My leg wraps around Peeta’s cold prosthetic, its temperature the near opposite of how flushed I feel. I can barely keep my eyes open, but when I close them, he removes his hand from my breast. I open up and whimper, and he groans softly. Peeta lowers his head, and nips at my neck while gently rolling my breast. The stimulation is finally enough to push me over, and I feel like an arrow soaring through the air. I cry out his name, and Peeta finds his release in that. His whole body tightens for a moment, and then he shudders.  He collapses on top of me for a moment, and the only sound in the house is the two of us trying to catch our breaths.

Because he is so open tonight, I think that maybe I can try something new. I stroke his back lazily in an attempt to get him to stay. The idea has been growing in the back of my mind since I discovered the paintings, but it takes a few weeks for me to articulate it. But I’ve been wondering, if painting seems to be the way Peeta expresses his emotions, maybe another form of art will ease Peeta to sleep.

Peeta rolls away, and he moves to pick up his robe. I sit up with him, however, and take his wrist gently. Using a small breath to steady my pulse, I ask, “Don’t go.”

He shakes his head and drops his arm. As he ties his robe, he repeats his old line. “Then both of us won’t sleep, Katniss.”  He doesn’t realize that his nightmares keep me up, too, though I would think the bags under my eyes show that clearly enough.

He seems so desperate to pull away. I wonder if he and Madge had a fight about this exact subject. It’s hard to trace the origins his emotional scars. Madge, his mother, the Games—they’ve all left marks, and I’m afraid that I won’t ever be able get through the damaged tissue.

As he moves towards the door, I say, “I think I know how to stop your nightmares.” This finally stops him, but his shoulders collapse in defeat.

“There’s nothing you can do about that.” This time, it is clear that some memory or dream has pulled him away from the present and reality. This is the side of Peeta that fuels his temper, and I have to be cautious so that he doesn’t leave completely and ruin my chances.

“Well, when Prim was younger, and she woke up from a nightmare, I would sing to her, and she’d fall asleep,” I say quietly. One afternoon, I found him collapsed in exhaustion on the couch. He reminded me so much of Prim in that second. It was the moment before the nightmares kicked in, and I could see what Peeta must have looked like as a child.  He looked so peaceful, so much like the Peeta that I thought I knew from our days at school. And isn’t that the whole purpose of this marriage, to get that old Peeta back? I’m convinced that, if he were only able to get some true sleep, living with him wouldn’t be such a chore.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Katniss, I’m not a five year old girl.”

I want to yell at him, but I can’t. It’s hard to be reasonable with someone whose first answer is always, _always_ no. I catch his eye and hold it. “I know, Peeta. I still want to try.” I set my jaw. I am going to win this discussion, if only because I’m far more stubborn than Peeta, even on his worst days.

Peeta seems to recognize that, and he sighs. “All right, then. But we’ll sleep in my room. My bed is bigger.” It’s true. My bed, while bigger than the one I shared as a child with Prim, is, in a place like this, intended for one adult-sized person. With two bodies, one of them Peeta’s larger frame, we won’t be able to move much in our sleep.  His bedframe is larger, just as his room is the master suite.

We don’t say anything as we walk down the hall. As soon as we reach his room, I realize how cold his room looks in the dark. Whereas the moon and the stars will catch the oranges of my walls and warm them, his white, blank walls reflect nothing but dark shadows. It’s almost bare, this room. There are no paintings on the walls, or even clothes on the floor. The bed is made, and I have a hard time believing that someone actually lives in this room. All the life that Peeta’s studio captures has been drained from here. Perhaps this is the reason that Peeta has such trouble sleeping. I know I wouldn’t feel at ease in a place like this. But tonight is about making Peeta feel comfortable.

I perch on what I instinctively feel is my side of the bed, the one further away from the open window. I then turn to face him. After this point, to be honest, I didn’t have a concrete plan. When I sang to Prim, I would hold her and tuck my chin over her head. But Peeta is too big to assume such a position, and I still don’t feel comfortable touching him outside of my bedroom. There is Peeta my lover and Peeta my housemate, but this falls into neither category. I suppose it could go with Peeta my husband, but I don’t associate that word with him. I never really have, even when I was signing the paperwork at the Justice Building. Peeta just is. Most days I don’t even think he’s _my_ anything.

He settles in, taking off his leg and collapsing on his back. When I don’t make a move, he is obviously exasperated with my hesitancy. He raises his eyebrow, suggesting that this was my idea. This is by far the most vulnerable I’ve seen Peeta since we were married. I take a breath and scoot towards his head. Gingerly, I run a hand through his curls. His eyes close for just a brief second, and I take that moment to sing.

 _When the blackbird in the Spring,_  
' _On the willow tree,_  
 _Sat and rocked, I heard him sing,_  
 _Singing Aura Lea._  
 _Aura Lea, Aura Lea,_  
 _Maid with golden hair;_  
 _Sunshine came along with thee,_  
 _And swallows in the air._

Before I can start the next verse, Peeta interrupts me. His eyes are heavily lidded and his voice is laced with sleep, but he asks, “Where did you learn that?”

“My father. He says it came from before the Dark Days.” Strangely, the memory of my father singing in the woods does not upset me. Rather, I smile a bit remembering how I insisted that he needed to stop before he scared off all the game. He wouldn’t, though, until I learned all the words and sang with him.

He takes the hand that is not wrapped in his hair and pulls it over his chest. I slide over, my legs up against his. “You sing… like an angel.”

 I stop brushing his hair for a moment, but then I go back to my task. I don’t know what to do, how to take that, so I just pick up the song again. The compliments feel false, like they belong in some other woman’s life, not mine.

_In thy blush the rose was born,_   
_Music, when you spake,_   
_Through thine azure eye the morn,_   
_Sparkling seemed to break._   
_Aura Lea, Aura Lea,_   
_Birds of crimson wing,_   
_Never song have sung to me,_   
_As in that sweet spring._

Soon Peeta’s breathing settles down, and I, too, slip into sleep. My dreams are utterly uneventful, just lazy strolls through abstract scenes.

It’s dawn, not Peeta, that wakes me. The first few rays scatter across the bed, and for a moment I am disoriented. His room is dazzling in the light, though still cold to the eye because of the lack of color. The bed is warm from our body heat.  Peeta’s arm has slipped around my waist in the night. Our legs are tangled, and my head is on his shoulder. I wonder briefly if I should move, but Peeta won’t be stirring any time soon. This, too, is a miracle, for usually when I wake at this time I find Peeta has already been to the bakery to help open and back. There’s no small satisfaction in knowing that I’ve done what no one else has ever been able to do. I banished Peeta’s nightmares. I smile against his chest and settle back done. Sleeping against him is much warmer than sticking to my side of the bed, and my eyelids flutter closed for the second time.

The second time I wake up, it is because there is a large banging on the bedroom door. It startles both of us, and we jump apart. We look at each other, and Peeta’s eyes widen. We’re still naked, and whoever is on the other side of that door is insistent. Peeta grabs his robe, but all my clothes are in my room.

“Peeta!” Linnea’s voice radiates, and my lips immediately tighten. The sheer nerve she has, barging into our house. She must have used the spare key by the front door, and I make a note to convince Peeta that we need to change the locks.

Peeta fumbles with the straps of his prosthetic, and he pulls too tightly on his drawstring as he stands up. I’m not alone in my displeasure. I grab his wrist, in the same way I did last night, and squeeze his hand. He looks are the place where our hands are joined like it is a foreign custom he’s never seen before. He then crosses the room and opens the door. I pull the sheets around me closer.

Linnea storms in, and starts to rattle on. “Peeta, I don’t know what you were thinking. You were supposed to be at the bakery six hours ago. Your father and Erik had to do all the work by themselves. We’re lucky that we were able to open this morning. It was only possible because we had enough left over from last night to tide us over until we could add the extra bread. Really, how many times have I had to tell you, just because you’re a Victor doesn’t mean you get to slack on your duties as a member of this family. In fact, if anything—“

For the first time, she sees me. She looks at Peeta, and then back at him. She scoffs, and though she speaks to him, she’s looking at me when she says, “Ah. I see. You were caught up in your little Seam whore, weren’t you?”

“Excuse me,” I snort. I have _never_ been called a whore in my life. “I seem to remember his Merchant wife was the problem, not me.” She has no right to bring my background into this conversation. I was raised ten times better  than she was, if you can judge the way she treats her children and her hosts. I’m still furious about the conversation I overheard at the wedding, but that wasn’t the time or place to fight.

I want to continue now that I have that opportunity, but Peeta slams the door. Both Linnea and I jump. His rage, however, is directed straight at her. “Mother,” he says through gritted teeth, “you do _not_ have the right to treat me as if I am a child, and you do _not_ have the right to force your way into my house uninvited. I am an adult, and you will start to respect that, or I will stop paying for your shopping bills. You are nothing but a hypocrite, insisting that everyone else must live on the bare necessities but wanting luxury all to yourself.

“Furthermore,” he says, opening the blinds so that we can all see better, “you will _not_ use me as an excuse not to do your fair share at the bakery. You were the one that vetoed moving into the Village with me twelve years ago, and so you should have the face the consequences. I help out at the bakery because I want to help Dad and Erik, not because I feel pressured by you.”

I can’t help but sit amazed. This is the kind of information that I would never hear from Peeta if I asked. I had always known, since we were twelve, that the relationship between Peeta and his mother was rocky, but I never imagined that it was this bad. It seems scars I had attributed to Madge may have been deeper than her. If this is any indicator of how his home life was, maybe it’s a good thing that he’s finally angry enough to let it out of his system.

“And finally,” he says, placing himself directly between Linnea and me, “You will _not_ insult my _wife._ Never. Again. Because of her, I was able to sleep well for the first time in eighteen years. I dreamed of my future, not my past, and Katniss was in it. And do you know who wasn’t? You.

“I am tired of you belittling everything in my life. Nothing is good enough for you. So if that’s the case, then you shouldn’t mind leaving my life. I don’t want to see you until you can apologize and keep your vicious thoughts in your mouth, snake. So get out.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Peeta stops her. “Get. Out.” He points to the door, and he follows her downstairs. I hear the front door slam with enough violence that it rock the windows up here.

And I can’t help but laugh. I’m giddy that Peeta finally stood up to his mother, and my body shakes from giggling. I’m elated that we both finally got a full night’s sleep, and my side pinches from the delirious pain. I’m stunned that he mentioned me in his future, and my eyes start to well up from the sheer strength of the laughter. I’m heaving for breath, and my laughter is so strong it’s silent.

When Peeta comes in, he sees me and rushes over. “Hey, it’s okay, Katniss, she’s not going to bother us anymore. I should have done that a long time ago,” he says, wiping my eyes. “You don’t need to cry, she’s gone.”

He thinks I’m crying. It’s so sweet, and so surreal. I shake my head back and forth, and lift my head. His blue eyes are still concerned, and I can tell that, for a person who is overjoyed, I’m doing a very poor job of expressing myself. He hugs me to his chest and put a hand on my head. “I’m sorry, Katniss. But she’s wrong. You’re not a whore, you’re my wife.”

Is that what this is? It certainly doesn’t feel like a marriage, no matter what the paperwork says. Peeta interrupts my thoughts by kissing me on the forehead. That gives me an idea. I tilt my head up and kiss him.

This is the first kiss that isn’t a means to an end, a precursor to sex. It’s simply an extension of the moment. Peeta is surprised at first, but then he returns the kiss. It opens and unfolds, and my hand automatically goes to his hair. It’s slightly damp from sweat, and it so messy from all of last night’s activities that I think I’m actually straightening it as I go. His hands cup my chin, and his tongue strokes mine. I realize this is the first kiss I’ve enjoyed without distraction, simply dwelling in the moment. I feel a tear rest on my cheek, and I realize that Peeta is crying, too.

My body starts to warm, but I don’t want this one to be about sex. It would cheapen my victory here today. And so I pull away and give him a half smile. His mouth is still open, and his eyelids are shut. When he opens them, there’s something there that I can’t understand. He closes them again, and pulls away. “I should go make breakfast,” he says. “Do scrambled eggs sound good?”

I nod. We’ve never eaten breakfast together, but I’m not going to bring that up if he hasn’t noticed. “And I should go put on my clothes.” I let him leave the room first as I debate whether to walk to my room wearing the sheet, or just to drop all pretense of modesty and walk there naked.

Peeta turns back and tells me, “And Katniss? I’m sorry.”

He’s already down the stairs when I shake my head and say, “it’s not your fault.”


	6. He's Gone Away

_July_

It’s a testament to how much the Games distract Peeta that he doesn’t notice that my period is a week late. We’ve had sex every day since the wedding, excepting the times I’ve been on my monthly cycle. Peeta is very possessive about it, on good days and on bad days. Especially on bad days. I know that if I told him I wanted to stop, he would, but he sleeps better if we’ve been together, and I enjoy it most of the time. I actually enjoy it more now, and I think that has something to do with the fact that I’m more comfortable with him.

He’s also gotten better, or at least more attentive. He still doesn’t take the time to explore leisurely, but when he happens upon something that makes me cry out, he’ll remember it for next time. Now he remembers that circles are better than strokes when it comes to my sensitive areas, and that sometimes pressure is the most important element. Some of the things that he discovers are new to me, too. I had some idea that a bit of pain could actually be pleasurable, but I never thought a pinch could be pleasurable. When he teases my breasts, the flames spread from the point of contact through my entire body, lighting my nerves on fire as it moves. It also surprises me that the spots where I am ticklish, like my side and my knees and the back of my neck, are also incredibly erotic. When he kisses those, the warmth builds more gradually, but it does not ebb as easily as the fire does.

If he sleeps better on the nights we have sex, he sleeps the best when I come apart in his arms. Those are the nights where he will wrap his arms around my waist and wait until I wake up to leave the bedroom. They’re also the nights that I sleep the best. And they’re always the mornings when he’ll stay in from the bakery and eat breakfast with me.

But this month, there has been no break in that routine pattern. I’ve counted the days since my last period twice. There haven’t been any other signs yet, but there’s no other logical conclusion. Married women who have sex have babies, after all, and protection is so rare in the districts, even for Victors, that we’ve never bothered. There haven’t been any other signs, so I’m not going to bring it up if he won’t. I don’t want to distract him from our tributes when he is in the control room. He needs to be focused, and so I can keep this secret for the next month. It helps, in some sick way, that today is the Reaping. He’ll be gone this afternoon, and then I won’t have to worry about it slipping out.

Right now, the bed still smells like cinnamon, but he’s pacing back and forth as he packs. There are circles around his eyes. The nightmares have come back, but he hasn’t kicked me out because of their return. Rather, if I don’t wake up with him the six or seven times a night it happens, he’ll nudge me awake gently and ask me to sing. It’s exhausting, and so I don’t know if it’s the late nights or the hormones that are compelling me to take naps during the day. Last night, I didn’t sleep at all, I just sang a song that my mother used to hum after my father’s death.

_He’s gone away, for to stay a little while  
But he’s coming back, if he goes ten thousand miles._

Some nights, I just want to give up and go back to my room. But Peeta has been opening up, even though it’s been irregular. He invites Delly over and then disappears to his studio, which I think is his way of trying to force to be friends. He’s been teaching Posy all of the Capitol dances that Haymitch can’t do (on account of the fact that he would have to stand straight and tall to do them).

Back in March, he asked me to teach him how to braid my hair. His hands are incredibly gentle as he brushes one hundred strokes through my hair. He’ll then message my head a bit. He has an artist’s, a baker’s hands, and sometimes I wish time could just freeze like that. Inevitably, he will pick up my hair to braid it. Peeta is meticulous in making sure that the braid is perfectly even. There have been times when he will stop at the very end, only to start again because he noticed a kink at the top. This always makes me groan, but he’ll start over again with the scalp massage, so I can’t complain.

 _Oh, who will tie my shoes?_  
And who will glove my hand?  
And who will kiss my ruby lips  
When he is gone?

Our communication outside of the bedroom is still rather lacking, however, and so I merely watch him as he packs. I’m tired enough that I don’t catch that he’s unpacking everything as until at least the third time he empties his suitcase.

“Peeta.” He looks up, and his eyes are so big that he looks lost. I have an overwhelming urge to cross the room and kiss him, but I fear he’ll just retreat and not surrender. “Peeta, it’ll be okay. It will be over soon enough.”

As soon as the words are out, I realize how absolutely horrible they sound. That’s _exactly_ what Peeta fears, isn’t it? The inability to save the tributes that die every year in front of his eyes is what keeps him up. He doesn’t want to let people close because he’s afraid he’ll lose them all. His grip tightens on the dress shirt he’s wearing. When he lets it fall to the floor, the wrinkles are deep enough that he won’t be able to pack it, let alone wear it. But he takes a deep breath, and tries to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and after a moment, he stops pretending. He looks away. “No, you’re right. It will be over soon.”

Suddenly, my hands and nails are the most interesting things in the world. I stare at them while Haymitch’s words pop into my mind.   _“Considering he is the only useful mentor this district has.”_ Peeta can’t regress, not now. There are two kids who will need him in a few hours. The calluses on my fingers are really quite engaging if I stare at them long enough.

Peeta exhales forcefully, and I hear his prosthetic click. I look up just in time for him to take my chin into his palm. He tilts my head up gently, but the kiss is firm. It’s needy and forceful, and it catches me by surprise. I take this moment to try and communicate how sorry I am, and to make amends. I kiss him back as much as I am able. His fingers tangle in what is left of my braid from last night, and I gasp.

Peeta pulls away at the noise, and he runs a hand through his hair. I just try to catch my breath. He looks undecided, glancing from me to the clock and back to me. He doesn’t take long to make up his mind. He leans over the bed and traps me with his arms on either side of my body. He kisses me again, and I drop the sheet that I’ve been clinging to this whole time.

His tongue strokes mine, and I know this isn’t going to be tender and sweet and leisurely. He can’t seem to focus his attention as every few seconds, he breaks away to suck at my collarbone or breast or neck. It’s hard enough that there will be bruises that form quickly and stay long after he leaves for the Capitol.  I have to wonder if his possessiveness is a second reason for his troubled mind this morning. While he’s busy marking up my body, I try to mark his mind. I cup his butt and squeeze softly. I respond to the anxiety he leaks with as much gentleness as I can manage. He needs to know that, more than anything, there are people in District Twelve that believe in him, that will miss him when he is gone. That _I_ will need him and our relationship that I still can’t define. Here, with his body hovering over mine, I can admit to myself that I am the person who needs Peeta the most.

Peeta’s teeth tug on my earlobe, and my back arches slightly. I read down to rub him through the fabric of his pants, and then seems to remind him of the impediments between us. He pulls off his undershirt before lifting my nightgown over my head. As I undo his buckle, he rubs his hand over my stomach. My eyes fly to his for a moment. Maybe he knows about the baby already. But he continues further down with no comment, and there is nothing but determination and lust in his eyes.

My head sinks down into the pillow as he dips a finger inside me to see if I’m ready. I can’t help but squirm. At this point, I need something larger than just his index finger to complete me. He pumps in as he takes my left breast in his mouth, and as he removes his finger, he releases my breast, biting the nipple as he finishes his task. I whimper until he does the same with my right breast. Some of my blood rushes to the surface of my face and my chest as my entire body flushes red. Most of it, however, settles deep in my core, and I moan his name. He smiles wickedly.

He stops to position himself at my entrance. He moves in and out and rubs circles so that I can catch up with him. The pace he sets is nearly as fast as my heartbeat, and my nerves feel like they’re on fire. I can feel his body sliding into mine, can smell the drops of sweat gathering in the hair on his neck, and can hear his heavy breaths panting near my ear. But then he stops. I wiggle underneath him, trying to get him to start up again, but he won’t do it until I return his stare. It’s nearly impossible, but I keep my eyes open as much as I can.

His new speed is strong, but not quite as fast. His eyes are the brightest I’ve ever seen them, and I suddenly realize what makes this time different. This is the first time we’ve had sex outside of Peeta’s schedule. This is sex just because we wanted to be closer to each other. That realization ripples through my body, and I moan his name. He hisses mine in return.

With one last thrust, his whole body shudders, and then he goes completely limp. There’s no nervousness, no worry in his features. It’s pure bliss, and it’s beautiful enough that I feel a lump rising in my throat.

When it looks like he can move again, I try to sit up. This is normally the point where he would roll away and put on his clothes while I go wash up. But he stops me with a kiss, lightly easing me back down. While still sheathed inside me, he rubs me to completion. I cry out his name one last time, and only then does he let me move. This, too, is a new development, as usually we just go to sleep after he’s done. Now, he brushes a loose piece of hair off my face and pulls out with a half-smile on his face. My thoughts are so dizzy that I’m not sure if this moment is real or not.

But soon enough, I am reminded of the pain around me. When Peeta is finished packing, we walk to the square early to be there before the crowds arrive. A Peacekeeper takes his bag for him, and he turns to face me. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He turns his face away, but I grab his chin and pull him in for a kiss. It lingers because neither of us want to pull away. His thoughts finally get the best of him, though, and he breaks it with that far off stare.

“Hey.” I tug on a curl until he looks at me. “I believe in you.” He hugs me swiftly and kisses me on the top of my head, but then he is off.

This is the first Reaping in seventeen years where I do not personally know any of the children, but it’s still hard to watch as two families are destroyed. They’re both younger than fifteen, I think. All I can see is a girl with brown hair and blue eyes  being corralled up on stage, screaming my name.

That child stars in the nightmares that start as soon as Peeta is gone. It doesn’t help at all that in District Eight, the daughter of one of their Victors was Reaped. No one volunteered for her, and so her mother will have to weave that shroud in front of the entire country. I know instinctively that my child will suffer the same fate because the Capitol loves a good show, doesn’t it? The only thing that Caesar and the rest talk about is the odds and the “uniqueness” of this situation. I can’t help but feel this isn’t entirely random. And if it is rigged, the first child of a District Twelve Victor doesn’t stand a chance.

And so the nightmares always begin the same way. That ridiculous Effie Trinket reaches into a bowl, her nails covered in a red paint that looks as dark as blood. When she brings the card up to her mouth, her lipstick is the same shade, and she looks like she’s been eating someone’s heart. She calls out a name. Mellark. And just like that, the girl with brown curls and blue eyes is torn away from the crowd. I desperately want to volunteer, to take her place, but Prim’s arms encircle me as she tries to hold me back. She can’t keep me from screaming, however, and I bit her hand hard enough that she whelps in pain. Eventually, Rory—or maybe Gale, for I don’t turn around to see—takes her place, and then I can’t move at all. I turn to the platform, and my eyes lock with Peeta’s. There is a deep red stain on the front of his shirt, and I realize that the heart the Capitol was eating. He shakes his head and turns away. And it’s all I can do to not run up and hug him and our child, to take them away from all this pain. I look down at my own shirt, and my heart, too, is missing.

The dreams don’t stop there, either. During the day, I watch that girl from Eight star in the tribute parade, train against the Careers, and interview with Caesar. At night, I relive those same actions with the little girl with curls. The dreams are both vivid and surreal. I can see the training center’s bow and arrow are too large for her, but her opponents are enveloped in shadow. It doesn’t matter what the setting is, however. It always ends with the girl dying.

 The night after the Cornucopia, I relieve the bloodbath three times before I can’t take it anymore. I get out of our bed and move to the large bathroom. I begin to run a bath, but then I change my mind. A shower would rinse off the sweat and fear that clings to me better. It might also calm me down. My thoughts and heart are racing from a nightmare half-remembered.

Maybe not telling Peeta, not sharing this burden with someone, was a bad idea. I need someone to talk to, but I’m not very confident about my options.

There’s Delly, who is open and receptive to anyone. But, despite Peeta’s efforts, she and I don’t have a real bond. She’s much more Peeta’s friend and his sister-in-law than any tentative attachment we might have. I don’t want to burden her with my secret, and I most definitely do not want the entire family to know before I tell Peeta. Susan is not even a serious contender because I’m even further separated from Erik’s wife than I am to Levi’s.

I want to tell Prim, but she, too, is horrible at keeping secrets. She tries so hard, but everyone knows when she’s keeping one, and people will start guessing until she breaks down. And this secret will make her so happy that it’s best that perhaps she doesn’t know until it can become public knowledge.

I’m not speaking to Linnea, and my mother and I have never been close enough for me to feel comfortable with this conversation. Sae would make it a joke, and the whole town would know within the hour. The truth is, besides Prim and maybe Posy, I don’t have many female friends, or even true friends at all. I was an outsider at school, and most of my contact after that was strictly business. My only real friends were Gale and Madge.

Madge. She would understand. She’s perhaps the only person alive who knows Peeta well enough to answer my questions, but who will also keep our conversation confidential. There’s absolutely no way she could tell Peeta, considering that he is not speaking to her. A part of me feels like it would a betrayal of Peeta’s trust, but I shake that away. I can make my own decisions, and Peeta should trust me anyway.  I try to fight the idea for several days, but soon it eclipses all other options. After I finally make the decision, I can fall into three hours of sleep.

In the morning, I slip into my hunting clothes as if it were any other day, but I veer left towards the Seam instead of right to the fence. If anyone finds my appearance in the Seam odd, they don’t comment. I’m not sure most people recognize me anyway until they are close up. I might not live here anymore, but I still look Seam. I pass my mother’s house, and Vick’s, before I finally get to Gale’s.

Madge opens the door after the first knock. Gale must be in the minds. I can’t help but feel sorry about that, even though it’s not truly my fault that our paths diverged. I made a decision to not keep up with this branch of the Hawthornes, but my relationship with him never fully mended after his confession when we were teenagers. Madge and I had parted ways around the time she married Peeta, so I was able to lose her, too, without feeling the loss.

Madge’s dress is simpler than the ones that she wore when she was still a Merchant woman, but her smile is the same. She greets me as if no time has passed at all. “Katniss! It’s so good to see you!” When I see her, I can’t help but wonder if my pregnancy is the only reason that I came here. There’s a morbid curiosity surrounding Madge’s decision in my mind. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. And I wonder if perhaps knowing the reasons behind Madge’s decision may help me understand Peeta and his insecurity.

Madge motions for me to come inside, and I notice for the first time the baby sleeping in a cradle. Everyone in the district knew she was pregnant, but I suppose I never thought about the actual baby. Looking at it, it’s clear that this child is Gales’. Its hair is dark brown and straight, even though its skin is Merchant-light. I can’t see his eyes, but I would guess they’re the same light color Posy’s were before she settled into that Seam-grey.

 Madge catches me staring and smiles. “Aaron is a little angel, isn’t he?” I nod, grateful that she’s broken the tension. She takes my hand in both of hers and squeezes lightly. “I think you and I have a lot to talk about. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be great, thank you,” I say, and Madge leaves the room to put the kettle on. The room is very well kept, with light curtains that must need a washing twice a week to keep them from turning grey from the coal dust. There’s a rocking chair in the corner that I remember as a Hawthorne family heirloom. It’s beautiful and strong at the same time, and it reminds me of both Madge and Hazelle. I idly rock the cradle while I wait for Madge to return with the tea.

When she comes back, she sits on the edge of the couch her body turned towards mine. I take the tea and am grateful for something to do with my hands. When I don’t say anything, Madge starts the conversation.

“It was always much harder to love Peeta then than it is to love Gale now,” she begins. “With Peeta, I wanted to love him. But he was my friend first, and I don’t think I was ever able to get over that. And he was always so angry in his sleep. I was…” Madge takes a moment to collect her thoughts. “I was scared. Not that he’d hurt me, but that he’d lose himself. It was easy to make excuses because Peeta was so trusting.

“But then I met Gale again. He had been my first. It was right after you rejected him, actually, and it was about the sex. He was one of maybe three people that didn’t want to be friends with me because of my father’s, or Peeta’s, money.” Madge smiles, and I instinctively know that I am one of those three. “In fact, he acted like he was better than me, calling me princess and telling me I didn’t know what I truly wanted because I had never known need.” Somehow, I don’t think that’s the way that Gale put it, but Madge shares Peeta’s gift for glossing over harsh words and making all of the people in her stories sound kinder than they are. I can just picture it now, Gale being caustic and Madge refusing to apologize for something that wasn’t her fault, not really.

“And so, one day, I told Gale I knew what I wanted. I told him I wanted to see what he was talking about. So he took me to the Seam, and to the woods, and to the slag heap. And I realized, just in that moment there, that what I really wanted was all of him. Like I said, it was easy to love Gale.”

I suppose that’s the part of Madge’s story that I understand the least, especially because it is so different from my own experience. There was a point where I thought I could love Gale, when he first told me he had feelings for me, but I realized it was a sham soon enough. What I felt for Gale was nothing like what I feel for Peeta.

I cared about Gale, and I wanted him to be okay. But I didn’t need to be the one that fixed it. With Peeta, I am the one that fixes it. There’s not a question there. Madge’s sentiments are exactly the reverse of mine, but they sound familiar all the same.

“And then, when we crossed paths again, it all came flooding back, only a million times stronger… I didn’t know what I was doing until it was too late.” She looks at me. “I didn’t mean to hurt Peeta.” Her eyes are big and slightly wet. She’s telling the truth. But I feel she should be telling Peeta this, not me.

“It’s not your fault. I don’t think those kinds of feelings can go away.” I can’t really find the right words, but I do hug her. It surprises Madge, I can tell by the way she pauses, but she returns the hug quickly enough. Aaron gurgles, and that commands Madge’s attention for the moment. She picks him up, and I’m jealous of how natural she makes it look.

She catches me staring. “Would you like to hold him, Katniss?”

“Yes,” I say, perhaps too quickly. I wasn’t really allowed to hold Prim when she was a baby. I was only four, after all, so the first real newborn I held was Posy when I was first becoming friends with Gale. I simply haven’t been around a lot of babies, though that’s going to change.

I put down my tea while Madge gets up and picks up the baby with a skill I don’t know I will ever learn. The baby doesn’t even stir. Gently, she passes the baby off, and I’m surprised by the weight of him. “He’s so sturdy.” Madge laughs, quietly.

“You should see him when he’s awake. He’s just like Gale. Tantrums galore, but then he can be the sweetest little thing.” I’m not paying attention to a word she says. There are so many details. He’s got little eyelashes and, because he’s lying down, you can’t quite tell where his jaw stops and his neck begins. If you look really closely, you can see him breathing, and you can smell whatever he ate for lunch.

The words tumble out before I can catch them. “Madge, I’m pregnant.” It shoots like an arrow through the conversation, killing any momentum we had. And I can’t take it back. It’s on her now to restart the conversation.

Her hug is completely unexpected. She envelopes Aaron and me, resting her head on my shoulder and rubbing circles on my back. “And you haven’t told anyone, have you?”

Even after two years of separation, Madge knows me well. “No.” I can finally breathe for the first time in two weeks.

She pulls away to inspect me. “How far along are you? You’re not showing.” I went to the right person. She’s not judging me for keeping the information from Peeta, and she’s already moved on from what surprise and shock she may have felt.

“About a month,” I say carefully.

“And you’re not sure how to tell anyone, especially after…” Madge makes a vague gesture towards the baby in my arms.

“Exactly. There’s no way to predict what he’ll do.” I suddenly feel the urge to pee. “I’m sorry, where’s your bathroom?”

“Oh, it’s down the hall.” She takes the baby and leads me there. Once I’m inside, she begins to speak again. “By unpredictable, do you mean you think he might hurt you?”  Her tone is hesitant.

“No. No!” I shake her head before I realize that she can’t see me. “Peeta would never do that.”

“Not intentionally, no, but what if he was already angry?” Did Peeta hurt her? But I can’t believe that. Her tone is much more speculative than reflective.

“I’m positive. Peeta would never lay a hand on me.” I flush the toilet and wash my hands. When I step out, I have to ask. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “But he also wasn’t drinking when we were together. That night at the festival… I’ve seen Peeta bad, but never that bad. If I were you, I couldn’t…” She bites her lip as we head back to the living room, and it’s only when we sit down that she broaches a new subject. “Katniss… do you love him?” She sounds more curious than anything.

I pick up my mug and stare into it. “I don’t know.” If she had asked me even an hour before, I would have said no. But the way she talks about Gale, I can’t help but feel if maybe there’s something I’m not recognizing. I know I care for Peeta, but love is still a very big step. The only person I know I love is Prim, but sisterly love is very different from romantic love.

We are silent for some time after that. I finish my tea. Madge lays Aaron down. She starts to say something twice, but it’s only the third time that she can articulate her thoughts. “Peeta didn’t love me, you know.” She’s looking at the baby, not me.

 “What do you mean?” I thought it was obvious that he had. That’s why it broke him when she betrayed his trust.

“Peeta gets _attached_ very easily. He was attached to the mystery girl from his interviews, and he was attached to me. And he mistakes that for love.” She sighs. “You’ve met Linnea. He’s still looking for the connection he never had with her. For validation.”

I’m still caught on the first part of her thoughts. “I thought you were the mystery girl.”

Madge shakes her head. “I wasn’t. Peeta and I were friends before he was Reaped, but it was mostly superficial. I know that’s what everyone thought, when I started visiting the bakery so much, but we really became friends because we were both outsiders.” That makes sense, in a way. I remember being friends with Madge for almost the exact same reason.

“Who do you think she was, then?” Is she saying that Peeta made it up to gain supporters? That seems out of character, even for someone as charming as Peeta was back then. Besides, he looked so sincere when he described how he felt to Caesar.

Madge blinks. “I think he was talking about you.” She states it as if it were obvious.

I don’t know what to say to that. That’s what I had thought, at the time. But he never spoke to me after the Games. He never even really acknowledged my existence. So I thought I had assumed too much from our brief interactions before the Games. I was even embarrassed for myself, thinking he could be interested in me. “Do you really think that?”

Madge sighs. “All that I know is that Peeta asked about you often when we left school. And that you’ve been able to get through to Peeta more than anyone else has.” She shrugs. “Or maybe I just didn’t try hard enough.”

I look at Madge. She looks guilty again. I still blame her for a lot of what Peeta has become, but I think she blames herself more. More than anything, I wish Peeta could hear what she’s said to me and see what she looks like. Her eyes are watering, and she keeps blinking. This time, I hug her. “Maybe one day he’ll understand.” I don’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive her. But I don’t believe he’ll be mad at her forever because I don’t believe he’ll be mad at the world forever, either. She squeezes me tightly, and I know I’ve said the right thing.

The conversation has gotten too heavy, though, so we move to small talk. She asks about Prim, I ask about Gale. We both avoid Peeta for the rest of my visit. But when I leave, I can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Not just because I finally told someone I was pregnant, or because I’ve regained a friend, but because I have yet another piece of the puzzle that is Peeta Mellark.

 _Oh, pappy will tie my shoes.  
_ _And mammy will glove my hands._  
And you will kiss my ruby lips  
When you come back.

_Look away. Look away over yandro._


	7. Will He Remember

_August_

Both of the districts’ tributes died yesterday, so Peeta should be home anytime soon. I stick to the house, partially because I want to be here when he comes back, but mostly because this might be the biggest thunderstorm we’ve had all summer. The power is flickering, which isn’t unusual in the Seam but has never happened in the Village while I’ve been here. I have all the windows open on the side away from the wind to air out the house, but the air is so thick it sticks to my skin. Every so often, there will be a flash of light that cracks across the sky. The weather matches my stomach, honestly. Morning sickness is here to stay. I’m sprawled across the master bed, trying to motivate myself to go eat a breakfast that I might throw up anyway. I just want Peeta to be home so this house stops feeling so lonely.

It must be noon, I hear the lock turn in the door, and I’m suddenly up and running down the stairs. I reach the bottom at the same moment that Peeta opens the door, and the muggy air drifting in from the street catches me off guard. I still and take an assessment. He is soaked to the bone, and he looks exhausted. His shoulders are hunched enough that he looks like he’s been carrying a boulder for a thousand miles, which, in a way, he has. There are circles under his eyes from too-little sleep, and he coughs slightly. All of it freezes me in a way totally at odds with the temperature outside. That overwhelming desire to help him comes back, but at the same moment, I realize that I don’t have that power. As much as I want to make things better, I don’t know where we stand anymore. The morning before the Reaping was a step forward, but I’m afraid that things may have regressed because of the weeks away.

His blue eyes lock on mine, and he drops his bag. Whatever emotion he might be feeling flickers for a second, but he brings up that stony mask too quickly. He goes to close the door, and I let him, but in the moment that his back is turned, I sneak up on him and put a hand on his shoulder before he can resist.

“Come here, Peeta,” I whisper softly, and he steps towards me automatically. I wrap my arms around his waist when he is close enough, and I squeeze him as hard as I can. He stiffens for a moment, and I have to wonder exactly how often my husband has been hugged. But then he relaxes, and one of his hands begins to play with my braid absentmindedly as he sighs. I hold him there, just listening to his heartbeat. The water in his hair and on his face starts to creep into my hair, but one drop feels warmer than the others. I tilt my head up, and it looks as if he just started to cry. He’s staring over my head, but I don’t speak until we lock eyes. “Come to bed with me?”

“Okay,” he whispers, just loudly enough for me to hear. I can’t help but smile again as I take his hand and lead him up the stairs. Once we reach the bedroom, I close the door and direct him towards the bed. I feel so vulnerable, and this all feels so slow, especially considering the determined pace we’ve always followed when it comes to sex. But I want this to be different. I want this to mean something. He’s just standing there, very confused by my admittedly out-of-character behavior.

I try to keep eye contact as much as possible when I unbutton his coat. Gently, I push him back onto the edge of the bed, and then I bend to unlace his boots. They’re perhaps the exact opposite of mine. Whereas mine are worn at the heel and floppy at the top, his are still stiff and sturdy. It takes quite a bit of time to loosen them enough so that I can slip them off. I slowly fold down his socks, and the fabric is still rough though it is drenched. When that is done, I rise back up to tackle his buckle.

“Katniss, what… what are you doing?” It’s nice knowing that I can trip up Panem’s best orator, but I stop moving my hands.

“Do you trust me?” It’s the wrong question. Of course he doesn’t. If he did, everything would be easier. So I try and rephrase. “Let me do this for you, okay?” Now he nods, and I pull his pants and boxers down. He kicks them off, and I motion towards the bed. “Scoot back.”  A pause as he does what I suggest. “Now, lie down.”

Slowly, I unstrap the prosthetic and lay it to the side. As confused as he is, he’s already half hard, which will make this easier. I bite my lip. I know, theoretically, what I should do. But, like most of my knowledge about sex, I only have secondhand information. And, right now, it’s horrible secondhand information because this is, to the best of my knowledge, something Madge has never done. Shortly before her marriage to Peeta, I remember her describing the act as revolting. So what I know is from gossip at the Hob alone. I just have to hope that Peeta will be surprised, and that he won’t have many experience of his own.

It makes me slightly uncomfortable to think of Peeta receiving this from anyone else. But that discomfort propels me to stop stalling, and so I sit on the bed where his leg would be, and I lean forward to kiss the head of his shaft.

He hisses my name, so either I’ve startled him or I’m doing something right. Feeling bolder, I flick out my tongue and test his length. There’s a vein there, and I run my tongue along it. Then, gently, I start to take him into my mouth. I’m not able to get as far down as I thought I would be, so I use my hand to squeeze the rest. I move up and down, licking as I go. It takes a second to coordinate my hand and my mouth, but once I find a rhythm, I can pay attention to the way that Peeta reacts.

His fists are curling the sheet, and his good leg is slightly tense. His eyes are closed. I’ve seen Peeta enraptured before, but this is new. The muscles in his neck and face are completely slack. As I suck on him, he groans. The sound is so perfect that I hum a little in happiness. At this, he thrusts involuntarily, and I have to put my free hand on his hip to stop him from pushing too deeply. I’m not ready for more just yet, but I have to smile anyway.

Since I got a good reaction the first time, I decide to hum again. I try a few notes of a song, but that feels silly, so I just aimlessly wander through some scales. It’s a bit hard to move my tongue and hum at the same time, though, so I have to alternate. He thrusts again, but this it doesn’t startle me as much. I stroke the juncture of his hip, and then move that hand down to help its twin. When I accidentally brush up against his sack, he moans my name. At first, I think it’s just from the pleasure, but when he repeats it and touches my shoulder, I realize it’s a warning as well. I slide my head back, and use my hands to finish him off. He comes in my hand and on his stomach, and I feel slightly giddy that I can do that.

When his breathing returns to normal, I look around for something to clean up with. There’s his shirt, and I tentatively hold it up. “Do you mind…” He shakes his head, and I go to work. When I’m done, I toss the shirt to the floor and kiss him one last time. I then move up his body until I’m lying next to him.

There’s a slight crick in my neck, and my knees are a little red from the way I half-sat, half-kneeled. Next time, I’ll have to find a more comfortable position. But there will be a next time. If I had known this was all it would take to get Peeta to loosen up, I might have tried this much earlier.

Peeta smiles sleepily, but when he sees that I’m next to him, he cups my chin and kisses me softly. “Can I ask what that was for?” He whispers.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” I whisper back. I duck my head into the crook of his neck, and it muffles my next sentence. “You looked like you needed it.”

“Katniss, you will always make me feel good,” he says so quietly that I almost miss it. I blush and pull my head back.

“And, well,” I say, biting my lip, “I have good news. Peeta, I’m… I’m pregnant. About a month and a half.”

His eyes grow wide. “You’re—a month and a half? So you knew before—?”

“I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure,” I say. It’s a little white lie that won’t hurt him.

“And you’re really—Katniss this is—” I have to giggle slightly because, for the second time tonight, Peeta has run out of words. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Does that mean you’re happy?”

“That I’m—Katniss, I think the only thing that could make me happier would be if you told me the Hunger Games were abolished.” He kisses me solidly on the mouth, but he pulls away far too quickly. “And you’re happy, too, right?”

Honestly, I don’t know how I feel. I never wanted children, but in this moment, seeing him this happy, I wonder if it’s worth the risk. I nod slightly, and Peeta’s eyes light up. He rolls us slightly, until he is on top of me. Sliding my shirt off, he starts to kiss down my body. “Peeta?”

“Hush. I’m going to make you feel good now.” His voice is husky, and my toes curl slightly in anticipation. When he reaches my stomach, he stops and kisses it again and again. “And then I am going to do everything in my power to make sure you feel good for the next eight months,” he says, looking up. I nod, and he picks up where he left off sliding my pants down. Feeling his breath, down there, sends shivers up my spine.

When he kisses the slant of my hipbone, though, I’m suddenly overcome with a different sensation. I sit up abruptly and swat him away. He looks hurt and confused, but I quickly rush to say, “I need to go to the bathroom. Now.” It takes a second for him to realize what I mean, but then he is scrambling away as quickly as he can without the prosthetic. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and run to the toilet, not really caring that I’m completely naked. I hear him strap on the prosthetic right before I retch for the first time.

He’s soon behind me, stroking my back and holding my hair. When I finally stop dry-heaving, he fills the glass I’ve started to keep by the sink and hands it to me. I rinse my mouth as well as I can, feeling mortified about it all.

“I suppose I’m just going to have to try that again another day,” he says wryly. I laugh, and he holds a hand out for me. “Let’s get you back to bed, okay?” I nod, and he leads me back.

I’m exhausted and slightly less pleased with myself than I was a few moments ago. I suppose it could have been worse, but I don’t like feeling that vulnerable. Peeta moves away, and I think he’s going to leave me here alone, but instead he climbs in behind me. He curls against my body, pulling the blankets over us. His arms snake around my waist, and he kisses my neck. I immediately feel safe and warm. My eyes start to droop, and I swear I’m already dreaming when I hear Peeta say, “Katniss, I think I love you.” I don’t dream at all, not of babies or tributes. It’s just blissful, deep sleep.

He’s gone in the morning, though, when I wake up from another bout of nausea.  I run to the bathroom and heave again. There is absolutely nothing in my stomach to reject, however, and so the feeling takes longer to go away. I’m barely finished before my stomach starts to growl. It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be sick and hungry at the same time.

I slip into my robe and move downstairs. Peeta must be at the bakery, but hopefully there’s something waiting for me in the kitchen. There is, but it’s not what I expect. My husband is measuring out flour and sugar and eggs. When he seems me, he drops it, though, and his face lights up.

“Good morning, Katniss,” he says, grabbing my wrist and kissing me. His tongue sweeps through my mouth, and he pulls away. His smile has fallen. “You were sick again this morning?” His eyes sweep my face, as if he can tell just by looking at me.

“That is what pregnant women are known for.”

“Well, then, I have applesauce. It’s what Susy ate when she was pregnant. Actually, she ate applesauce and toast. So, I was thinking,” he says, gesturing to the table behind me, “that maybe I would teach you about the family business.”

The bowls on the counter make sense now. “You’re going to teach me to bake bread?” It’s not a completely foreign concept to me. I’ve made bread with tesserae grain before. But the sheer number of ingredients has me feeling overwhelmed.

“Well, you are the only Mellark who can’t,” he grins. He looks forty years younger than he did last night. His smile is so wide his eyes are crinkling, and he is talking a mile a minute, like he’s afraid he won’t have enough time to tell me everything.

“Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Peeta is flying around the room. He’s talking about a wet mixture and a dry mixture, and how the temperature of the milk and the butter has to be just right or the yeast won’t work. I’m only catching every other word, so I put a hand on his arm and say, “Peeta, slow down.”

“Sorry,” he says in perhaps the least sincere apology I’ve ever heard. “How about this? I make the dough while you eat, and then I’ll teach you how to knead it.” I agree, mostly because I’m starving.

It’s fascinating, watching him work. He is incredibly efficient. He’ll crack an egg with one motion, and in the next, he’ll be throwing it in the garbage. When it’s time to mix the dough, however, he rubs flour onto the table.

“Give me your hands, Katniss,” he says, and I hold them out, palm up. He dumps a bit of flour on them, and I nearly jump back from the shock of it. He laughs. “Rub them together. It’s so the dough doesn’t stick to your hands.” He dusts his own hands, and I mimic his actions. Then he lifts the dough out of the pot he’s been using and starts to fold it.

“Now, you have to make sure that the raisins mix fully in, that they don’t clump together. So each time you press the dough down, fold it again. You can pick up the raisins that fall, too, if that happens.” I watch him. All the muscles in his arm contract and expand as he punches the dough and then gently folds it. He might have gained the sheer muscle from unloading flour, but it’s clear his hands and forearms were shaped by this kind of labor. When he catches me staring, he assumes it is because I want to try it for myself. “Come here. I’ll help you if you need it.” He chuckles at his pun, and I smile.

The dough feels stickier than I imagined, and when I pull away my hand, half of it comes with me. Peeta quickly sprinkles more flour on my hands. “Sorry, I forgot your skin is oilier than mine. Try again, but keep your fingers closer together.” He puts a hand on top of mine, and we push down simultaneously. “That’s good, do it just like that.” He nods encouragingly. I repeat that same motion again, and I feel the strain on my own muscles. It’s not a set I use daily.

Eventually, Peeta takes the dough away, and puts it in a larger pot to rise. “Now we wait an hour, then separate it into the loaves, and then let it rise for another hour.” He goes to wash his hands.

“And how many loaves will that make?”

 “Twelve?” My jaw drops. Does he expect me to eat that much? “We’ll give some to Posy and Haymitch, obviously.” He moves away from the sink, the water still on, and I get up to wash my hands as he dries his. When that’s done, he asks, “would you like me to braid your hair?”

My hair must look like a ball of yarn after Prim’s cat has played with it. But if Peeta can get through that mess, I’m certainly not going to deny him. I sit back down, and he stands behind me. All in all, I think this must be what makes today perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bakery scene. I cheated a bit on the bread-making process, if anyone noticed that.


	8. Fields of Gold

_October_

When the nausea subsides, the nightmares come back. My little girl is trapped in Peeta’s arena, and I watch as she succumbs to each of the hours’ horrors. She is just screaming my name at the jabberjays when Peeta shakes me awake. “Katniss, Katniss, it’s not real. Not real. It’s just a nightmare.”

I squeeze my eyes tight, and then open them to find him staring at me. A wave of relief washes over his concerned features, and he hugs me tightly. “I tried to wake you up several times,” he explains, “but you wouldn’t respond. I was afraid you were getting locked into the dreams.”

I snuggle into closer, just listening to his heartbeat. “Is that what happens to you? You get stuck in the nightmares?”

He sighs. “It was. Before you started singing.” I instantly feel guilty. The pregnancy has taken so much out of me lately, I’ve collapsed as soon as my head has hit the pillow.  If Peeta’s having nightmares, I’ve been completely oblivious.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, Peeta. I know you can’t be getting any sleep…” My voice trails off because I can’t think of anything to say.

“I haven’t had any nightmares since I got back. Or, rather, they’ve all starred you, so when I wake up, everything is okay again.” He sounds completely serious, but I can’t believe it. He’s been so open since he came back that it’s almost like he’s a different person. He got my mother to teach him how to braid my hair so that it doesn’t come loose when I was sick, and he is so tender when we have sex that I have to tell him that he can’t hurt the baby. When we found out that the smell of raw meat was sure to send me reeling, he decided to cook everything over at Posy’s house. It’s overkill, to be sure, but whenever I tell Peeta that, he says that taking care of me is now his job. I would believe that, but that’s really been my responsibility all along.

I hum without a specific tune in mind as I drift back to sleep, and Peeta rubs my back in circles until he nods off. My dreams are quiet for the rest of the night.

In the morning, he’s already at the bakery when I wake up, but I want to do something for him. From the breeze coming through the window, I gather this might be the last nice day we have. I grab my hunting pants, which have been neglected over the past four months, and start to put them on. The button won’t close. I just up and down twice, and that doesn’t work. I lie on the bed, and I still can’t get them on. I knew this day was coming, in the back of my mind. But I didn’t think I would be brought down by a pair of pants this soon. I know I can buy a new pair, but for today, I will have to deal. I admit defeat by putting on one of the dresses Prim bought me before the wedding.

It doesn’t take long to pack for what I have in mind, so I sit at the table and cut a slice of bread off of the loaf we made a few days ago. Peeta doesn’t see me the first time he passes the kitchen, but when he doubles back, he stares at my outfit. “Katniss, why are you wearing a dress and your hunting boots?”

“I want to show you something. Before it gets too cold. Go grab a pair of boots. You’ll need them.” When he indulges me, I grab the bag and we set out.

We can’t go to the fence directly. It would be too conspicuous. So I take him the long away around, through town out to the slag heap and back towards the butcher’s. When I’m sure there are no Peacekeepers around, I test the fence and then crawl under. Peeta’s eyes  bulge, and he stares at my stomach. “Come on, Peeta, it’s perfectly safe. I promise.”

He puffs out his chest and marches over. He slides under, getting his shirt dirty in the process. I have to chuckle. He looks down and blushes, but soon he joins me in laughing. I take his hand. “Come on, the sooner we get there, the sooner I can show you my surprise.”

We walk through the woods in near silence, though I can’t help but notice what Peeta sounds like. The click of his prosthetic, oddly enough, is completely drowned out by his heavy footfalls. Peeta has never had to be light on his feet, never had to sneak around, and he walks like it. It’s a good thing that I’m not hunting today.

When we’re getting close, I reach up and try to cover Peeta’s eyes. He senses what I’m trying to do, and does it for me, his arms protruding outward as he stumbles. I grab one of his elbows to steer him, and he pretends that I’m pulling him down by the ear. We’re both giggling, and then he’s falling, and I’m falling on top of him. I can’t stop laughing, especially when he asks, “Katniss. Can I take my hands off my eyes now?”

“Yup,” I say, pushing off so that he can sit up. He blinks in the sunlight, and then looks around.

We’re at a lake that my father took me to when I was young. I learned to swim here, and I also shot some of my very first arrows at these trees. The lake reflects the sunlight and sparkles, its waters deep and dark. In the fall, the trees shed their leaves until the piles are nearly up to our ankles. The rich oranges lie all around us, like a carpet. Peeta turns to me, and he says, “Did you know, orange is my favorite color?”

I shake my head, though I’m instantly reminded of the room that was mine and the paintings that hang there. “Because of the oven at the bakery?” I ask.

“No,” he tells me. “Because of the sunset.” He looks over my head at the horizon, but it’s not even noon yet.

“Well,” I say, swinging the bag around my shoulder, “I didn’t bring any colored paints, but I did bring your sketch book. And cheese buns, to eat if we get hungry.” I rummage around for the charcoal that has settled to the bottom as he laughs.

“Of course you brought cheese buns. You know that’s one of the reasons I love you, right? You appreciate what you eat. You don’t just take its flavors for granted.” I’m glad that Peeta can’t see my face as I sit down.

He sits with his head in my lap as he talks. I idly play with his hair, and sometimes I sing.

 _You’ll remember me when the west wind moves_  
Upon the fields of barley  
You’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky  
As we lie in fields of gold.

 _So she took her love for to gaze awhile_  
Upon the fields of barley.  
In his arms she fell as her hair came down  
Among the fields of gold.

He talks about growing up with his brothers and sneaking cookies from the bakery, or wrestling over silly things like whose turn it was to do dishes. He sketches the lake, but he also sketches me. I feel huge and bloated from the weight gain, but he makes it look so natural and easy, like a mere extension of my body that’s always been there.

 _Will you stay with me, will you be my love_  
Among the fields of barley?  
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky   
As we lie in fields of gold.

I’m just about to fall asleep from the blissfulness of it all when he suddenly puts down his sketch book and asks, “Katniss. How are you feeling?”

“Better, why?”

“Because I want to make you feel good.” My stomach flips. I remember that phrase. Peeta has tried to bring it up several times since that day, but I’ve never quite felt comfortable with it. But here, today, I am so relaxed, I start to think it might be a possibility.

“Okay.” His pupils immediately expand, and he clambers to raise himself up.

He first slips off my boots, and then my underwear. As he does, his fingers never leave my skin. They glide in a straight, smooth line from my hipbone to my ankles, tracing the inside of my thighs and the underside of my knee. The fabric in his hand scrapes along, too, and it feels so soft compared to his hands with their calluses from the bakery.

I start to pull myself out of the dress, but he stops me. “Leave it on,” he commands huskily, and I nod once. The way his eyes are heavily lidded, I’m not sure I can watch this. So I fall back, and I try to simply fall into the feeling.

He kisses his way up my leg, pushing my skirt up to my waist as he goes. When he reaches my thighs, he nips at them and licks them ever so slightly. The combination of his hot breath and the cool air sends a flame through my body, and I can feel myself growing from anticipation. His face is so close to my skin, I can feel him smile against my legs.

And then his tongue is on me. He takes long, slow licks up and down, and then plunges his tongue into me. It feels nothing like when he kisses my mouth, but I can recognize all the same motions. He swirls his tongue around my more sensitive areas, and he nips at my lips. I can’t help but moan as he takes his time to map the sensitive spots he already knows with his tongue. Every so often, he moans himself, and I wonder if it’s something like the pleasure I felt from making him feel this way.

As I get wetter, he moves faster, until I can’t tell the individual strokes apart. I just feel like I’m a rock, rolling up a hill, waiting for the moment when I’ll be let go and tumble down. When that moment finally comes, I scream his name but he keeps it up, never hesitating as I ride the last waves of pleasure.

 _See the west wind move like a lover so_  
Upon the fields of barley.  
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth   
Among the fields of gold.

When I can open my eyes again, Peeta asks, “May I?” I nod, and he slips out of his pants and strokes himself a few times. And then he is inside me, and above me, and kissing me, and I feel myself climbing again. He lifts my legs to his shoulders, and he is so deep I forget where I end and he begins. Our kisses are long and heady, and we fall together for what seems to be an eternity.

This time when he whispers, “I love you,” into my ear, I know I’m not imagining it. I try to say the words back, but my tongue quits before I can.

 _I never made promises lightly_  
And there have been some that I've broken,  
But I swear in the days still left   
We'll walk in fields of gold.  
We'll walk in fields of gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Fields of Gold is not an Appalachian ballad, or one from THG. In case you didn't know that.


	9. The Daemon Lover

_January_

The instant Peeta comes home from the bakery, I know that something is wrong. He closes the door a little too harshly, and he takes off his coat and scarf before even acknowledging my existence. He must have fought with his mother at the bakery. She usually stays out of his way, but every so often, she comes in and acts like he’s still a five year old.

Peeta passes me and looks in the ice box for something to cook. He slams a pot before he says hello, and I break the verbal silence. “Peeta. What’s the matter with you?”

He turns around. “Did you go to see Gale during the Games?” His pupils are dark, and his fist is clenched. Now that I’m closer to him, I can see that his hair is in complete disarray, and it looks like he might have been crying.

“I haven’t seen Gale since the Harvest Festival, you know that.” He was there, and I would think it was rather obvious Gale and I aren’t on the best of terms.

“I don’t think I know that, Katniss. Because everyone is saying you’ve been in the Seam an awful lot lately.” He leans against the sink and crosses his arms.

I narrow my eyes. “Who’s everyone? Your mother?” This sounds like exactly the kind of thing that Linnea would say, just to spite me. “I go and visit my mother. That’s hardly a crime.”

“You’re lying,” he says, and he turns back to his cupboards. He pulls out an apple and bites into it sharply.

“What do you think is going on, Peeta?” I would defend myself if I only knew what he was talking about.

He slams his hand on the counter and turns around. “I think you’re sleeping with Gale, and you’re only staying with me because you know I’ll pay for the baby. I think you got pregnant during the Games.” He points a finger at me, and shakes his hand.

I push my chair back and stand up in anger. “Peeta! How can you even say such things?”

“Everybody knows it’s true!” He screams, waving his arms around.

“Well, it’s not!” I cover my eyes for a moment. How has this become my marriage? How did Linnea, or whoever was gossiping, even get the idea that I was spending time with Gale. That kind of thing doesn’t come out of nowhere.

“They saw you! They saw you leaving his house!” Peeta looks like he’s going to cry.

I stop breathing for a moment. My visit with Madge. That’s the only time I’ve ever been near that house. I never told Peeta because I thought he’d be upset, but now that decision is coming back to haunt me. “Peeta, I went to see Madge.” I shake my head. “Not Gale. He wasn’t even there when I was. He was at work.”

Peeta chokes back a sob. “Oh, so you admit you were there?” He sits down at the table and covers his face.

“Yes, I was. But not for an affair!” I lean over him to rub his back, but he shakes me off.

“Why should I believe you?” he says, looking up from his palms. “You were just saying you only go to the Seam to visit your mother. How do I know you and Madge aren’t in this together?”

“Peeta! I’m not Madge. I’m not lying to you.” This is exactly why I never mentioned her earlier. She’s completely taboo in this house, and when she comes up, I’ve always been afraid he’ll associate her with me.

“You just did!” He points out.

I don’t have an answer to that. He’s right, but he’s being completely myopic. “Peeta, I promise you. I have never even _considered_ cheating on you.”

“Stop lying. You’ve been sleeping with both of us this entire time, haven’t you?” He narrows his eyes and points at my stomach. “And now you’ve got a Seam brat on your hands, so you tell me it’s mine.”

I would laugh, if I wasn’t afraid it would make him violent. As it is, I’m nearly hysterical as I speak. “Peeta. You’re being absurd.  You know I’ve never slept with anyone else.”

“I knew that, but I don’t _know_ that. Why should I believe didn’t go running to someone else when I couldn’t finish the job?” He sounds so down on himself in that moment, like he can’t possibly believe that he could be enough. I want to hug him, but this is most definitely not the right time.

“Peeta!” I’m close to tears myself. “I’m your wife. Of course I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” He keeps shaking his head, as if that will get me to shut up and go away.

I put a hand on his arm, but he pulls it away just as quickly. “You have to trust me.”

“And how exactly, am I supposed to trust a slut?” He spits his mother’s word back in my face, and I feel as though I’ve been slapped.

“I’m not a slut. That’s your mother talking, Peeta, not you. You told her that she was wrong.” My voice is as small as possible. I can’t believe this is happening.

Peeta stands up and walks towards the hall. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “Katniss, I want you to leave.”

“What?” My eyes widen. Up until now, I thought this was going to be just another fight, something we’d both calm down from in a few hours.

“This isn’t working. You’re obviously unhappy.” He turns around and waves vaguely at me.

“Right now, yeah. But that doesn’t mean we’re broken.” I shake my head. I know he doesn’t have much of a baseline, considering his parents and his first marriage, but he can’t think this is just the end.

“Yes, we are.” He nods. “You _hate_ being pregnant, and you hate _me_.”

“That’s not true. Not at all, Peeta.”

“Katniss…” he pinches his nose. “Just leave. This is over. I should have known better than to try this again.” He looks up at the ceiling to blink away some tears.

I stay exactly where I am, not caring that he’s seeing me crying. “Peeta, don’t do this.”

“You brought this on yourself,” he whispers. “This was your choice, not mine.

“I didn’t do anything!” I scream. I can’t take it anymore. Doesn’t he trust me, after all this time? “You’re going to believe some rumors over what I say?”

“Yes.” His voice is flat. “Because you’re lying.” That’s the end of the discussion, I can tell, but I appeal one last time.

“If I walk out that door, you’re never going to see this baby again, Peeta.” My voice cracks, and I can’t look at him. Maybe if he won’t do it for me, he’ll do it for the baby. He loves this baby, and we can get past this if he just remembers that.

“It’s not my baby.” At that, I can’t take it anymore. I run out of the room, pull my boots and my coat on, and slam the door. I don't stop running until I reach my mother's house, and that's when I finally let myself cry freely.


	10. The Hanging Tree

_March_

Settling back home was much easier than I thought it would be. None of the clothes I left here fit, but there are a few of my mother's dresses that work because the waist sits higher on my body. The skirts balloon out ridiculously around my stomach, but at least I don’t have to go back to Peeta to get my things.

The first night, I tried to sleep in my bed, but it was too lonely. I kept feeling the air surrounding me, even when I pulled the blankets tight. Finally, after hours of tossing and turning, I snuck into my mother's room and lay down on her bed. My footsteps, which are no longer soft, woke her up, and she opened her arms to me. I cried for a good long time, but she was patient with me until I fell asleep from exhaustion.

The bigger problem now is that, though there is a physical space for me to occupy here, there isn't much I can do during the days. I don't fit under the fence anymore, and my movements are a bit too awkward to hunt easily, anyway. I can't help my mother and Prim, either, because a good many of the plants they work with could hurt the baby. I've never been a good healer, anyway. I'm too impatient, and I have a horrible bedside manner.

I’ve picked up knitting to replace the collection of baby clothes I was growing at home. My stitches are so uneven I have to take them out every few lines. After a failed attempt at a hat, my mother suggested that I try a blanket instead. I’ve had more success with that, but it still looks a bit lumpy.

Peeta sends the divorce papers, but I can't sign them. I couldn’t even get past the first page, where it said that the reason for the divorce was infidelity. They just sit on the counter, half opened and still creased into three perfectly even sections. My mother, sensing that this is not a topic we are going to discuss, has just left them there, like a morbid centerpiece. I pick them up and read them at least three times a day, willing the words to be less real each time my eyes gloss over the papers. Finally, after a week of staring at them, I get up and find my shoes. They’re tight, as my feet have started to swell, but it’s not a very long walk. It's late enough in the morning that Peeta must be at the bakery, but early enough that no one else is up and moving.

Prim, however, must be headed to the house because I run into her. When she sees me, she dashes over, and I groan. "Katniss. You're not going to the Victor's Village, are you?"

I stop, but I don't want to have this conversation with my baby sister. "I am."

"Oh really? Because I'm pretty sure I'm just not going to let you go." She puts her hands on her hips and sticks out her jaw.

I have to laugh, and the baby finds it just as funny as it kicks me. "That's not a very convincing threat, considering I'm stronger than you, Little Duck."

"Oh, you never know. Your balance is off, remember. Though I don’t want to test that theory," she adds, “because you know this is wrong. You were sneaking out so you wouldn’t get caught.”

"Prim, I need to do this.” She has this tendency to try and find a hidden meaning behind whatever people say, when in this case, it’s really quite simple. I need to talk to Peeta, to make him see what’s wrong here.

She sighs and crosses her arms. "Katniss, you're different when you're with him."

"What do you mean?" Of course I’m different with Peeta. Last time I checked, I’m not married to anyone else.

Prim rocks back and forth on her heels once. "You tend to... you tend to do what Peeta wants without question."

How can she say that? Peeta and I have had plenty of fights before this one. "That's not true, I—” She cuts me off.

"Do you remember when I first married Rory?" I nod, and she walks over to someone's front porch. "Come sit," she says, patting the seat next to her. I look down the road, and no one's there, so I suppose it won't hurt for me to wait a little longer before I go home. When I settle in, she starts again.

"Rory and I were first married, and I was so excited to be setting up my own house. I’m sorry, but you have horrible taste, Katniss, and Mom doesn't seem to care, even after all this time. So I made a list, and I stuck it on the ice box. It was everything that I wanted to do, and everything I wanted to buy.

"It wasn't exactly a cheap list. It had a lot of fabric on it, which meant a lot of dye, and most of it was not stuff that was going to be at the Hob. We would have to buy it in town.” As she speaks, I remember the curtains and the tablecloths that I’ve always found a little excessive, but still quintessentially Prim.

“We were financially stable, or at least stable enough. Rory and I had consciously made the decision not to get married until he was settled in his job, remember, and I was making a bit on the side by helping Mom. So there was money to be spent. But before the wedding, Rory had said that we should save up. He said he wanted to have a cushion when we had children, in case something went wrong. I was too busy dancing inside because he had mentioned children to pay attention to that, so I said yes.

"When the money was there, it was so tempting to spend it. It was amazing, the feeling of not having to worry about money. I finally had a space that was mine, and I was able to buy things I wanted without feeling guilty. Not that you ever made me feel guilty,” she rushes to add. “I just knew we couldn’t afford much. But after the marriage, I could. Not a lot, but enough. I would come home from Mom's house with a new piece every time I went over there because the stores were on the way back.

"At first, Rory helped me pick things out. He had suggestions all the time, and he would help me hang things up. But then he started to pull away. I thought he was just tired from work, so I let him go. After a few weeks, I didn't even notice that he wasn't helping at all, or even complimenting my work once I was done.

"But then one night, I came home from setting Thom Masters’ leg. Rory wasn't in the living room, like he usually would be, but it was late, so I thought that perhaps he had gone home. I went to the kitchen and had grabbed a glass of water before I noticed. The list was torn into little pieces, and sitting in the trash can.

"I walked into the bedroom, and Rory was there, just staring at the wall. I asked him what was the problem, and he just let it all come out. It was the biggest fight we'd ever had. It turned out, he wasn’t okay with me spending money. He hated the things that I was buying, not because they were ugly, but because he felt like I wasn't listening to him. I told him it was hard to listen to someone who wasn't saying anything. We went back and forth for hours, just standing on opposite sides of the room and screaming at each other. At some point, I broke down into tears, and then he brushed past me and said he was leaving. I went to the bed and sobbed myself to sleep.

"When I woke up in the morning, it turned out that Rory hadn't left the house at all. I thought he would have at least gone to Vick's, or maybe his mother's, but he was sitting on the couch. He looked like he had a crick in his neck but had gotten just as little sleep as I had. He looked up at me, and we both said we were sorry at the same time. Later that afternoon, we came up with a better plan, one that involved saving for the future, and saving for bigger pieces that would last longer.

"But that's not the point. Katniss, you're acting like Rory. You keep thinking you are supposed to just give in this relationship. But it's making you miserable. Maybe not yet," she corrects herself before I can protest, "but you will. And then one day, you're going to snap, and you and Peeta are going to have a fight just as big as this one. Only, honestly, I don't think your marriage can handle it. I don't even know if you two can handle this one."

"But that's why I have to go back! I need to fix this." She’s argued my point for me, essentially. This fight is big enough that, if I don’t go, we don’t ever get back together.

"No, Katniss.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You need to stop thinking you can fix him. You can’t save him. Peeta has to save himself. And that scares you because you don’t want to fail. You want him to love you."

"Peeta doesn't love me." Sure, he’s said it, but if he truly loved me, why would he think I’d cheat on him?

Prim raises an eyebrow. "Then why did he marry you?" She keeps acting like she knows better than I do.

"I don’t know.” I really don’t. I know what Peeta’s told me, and what I’ve inferred, but none of it feels right. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real anymore. “Because he wanted to make Gale mad, I guess."

"That's not true.” Prim shakes her head. “Peeta married you because he loves you, even if he didn't see it at the time. He loves the real you, and he loves you even when he’s furious. He fell in love with the brave, self-sufficient Katniss that rushes into things too quickly because she feels like she has to protect the people she loves, or because she feels like she's got a debt to pay. He loves you even at his worst, when all he wants is to beat up Gale or scream at the world. But you can’t live with that Peeta, and keep compromising with that Peeta. Or you’re going to go crazy. And you need to make him realize that.”

She seems to not understand the progress Peeta has made. “But he’s gotten so much better, Prim. This is just a setback. It’s been working.”

"That’s not an excuse, Katniss, for you to keep doing this,” she says, shaking her head once more. “A marriage is a partnership. But you and Peeta are completely codependent.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. "So what do you think I should do?"

"I think you need to turn around, and walk back home with me." Her voice is sure but almost neutral. She’s simply reciting a fact.

"What?" I feel like we covered this ground before the whole story and lecture, and I made my opinion perfectly clear then.

Prim takes my hand in hers. "Katniss, _everyone_ agrees that Peeta's wrong here. You need to let _him_ see that, too, on his own. You’ve done what you can. Now he needs to do the rest. So we're going to go home, and find you something to do so you don’t run away again." She stands up and offers me a hand.

After what seems like an hour, I give in and let her help me up. As we walk back to the house, I say, "You know I hate you, right, Little Duck?"

"I love you, too, Katniss.” She squeezes me in a half-hug.

 

When we get home, Prim and I sit down with Mom at the kitchen table and make a list of everything that needs to be done before the baby was born. When I was living in the Village, we had ordered clothes and diapers and furniture and everything else, but now all of that had to change. The list ended up being much longer than I remembered, too, probably because my mother kept remembering episodes from when Prim and I were little. "You're going to need extra washrags," she'll add randomly, or, "Make sure that the crib is sturdy." I also don't want to know the story behind that last one.

It's good advice, though, because somewhere along the way, I decided to build my own furniture for the baby. I justify it because the unfinished wood is cheaper, but really I enjoy doing it because it consumes all of my energy. My mother doesn't like it. She's constantly making sure that the nails aren't rusty, and she won't let me anywhere near any of the finishes. I'm not allowed to work on any of it when she's not around, either, so when she's got a patient, I get to practice my knitting skills again.

Building furniture is both easier and harder than I thought it would be. Easier because after learning how to carve my own bow, I can cut the wood into much smaller pieces. Harder, because it takes a few tries to me to see the balance in things. When my first chair falls apart as Prim sits on it, I think my mother almost has a heart attack.

As the pregnancy goes on, it gets harder and harder to work around my stomach. I end up in awkward contortions, and I'm in one of these positions when Madge stops by one day. I've got my head under the changing table and my legs curled to the side, partially underneath me. My mother gets the door.

It's good to have Madge back, and to not worry about Peeta getting mad. After all, he can't get much worse than he already is. It's easier to ask Madge about the baby that anyone else, and it's easier to take her advice. After all, the last time my mother was pregnant was twenty five years ago, and even though she insists that babies haven't changed in the meantime, I still don't quite trust her. Prim and Posy are also completely out of the question. No babies means no opinion.

I can't quite extract myself from the table without help, though, so Mom and Madge move it a few inches, and then they both help me stand. As I do, I feel a wetness drip down my legs. It's odd because, though I've had to go to the bathroom plenty of times lately, I usually get more of a warning than this. I'm about to get embarrassed when I make the connection.

"Mom?” I call. My voice is squeaky and unnatural. “I think my water just broke." 


	11. Barbara Allen

_March_

She bursts into the house. I don’t even hear the door close behind her. She thumps up the steps, but she must be taking them two at a time because there aren’t nearly enough clunks before I hear her thudding through the hall. The noise is notable especially because she is normally silent when she moves. She bangs on my door once, twice, three times.

“Peeta, open up, or I’m going to call Cray, tell him you died, and get him to bust open this door for me.” Another bang for emphasis, though I think this time, she’s just kicking the door. It rattles in the frame.

 I roll over and groan. “Go away.”

“On second thought, I might be able to break down this wall myself. Or maybe I’ll get Gale to do it.” At the sound of his name, I sit up and reach for my prosthetic. That was a low blow, and she knows it. And he is not coming into this house, not if I can help it.

She’s mid-knock when I open the door, and so it upsets her balance for a moment. Posy Hawthorne recovers quickly, though, and she smirks. “Peeta, if you want to become a hermit, you’re going to have to develop a thicker skin.” She looks so much like Katniss did at that age, except she wears her hair long and flowing. She’s got that wicked glint in her eyes, though, the one that made the difference between a tribute and a victor.

“What do you want, Posy?” I know it was stupid, but I thought for a second it could have been Katniss, even though she made it quite clear that she never wanted to see me again. The only way she could have been clearer would have been to sign the divorce papers I had sent to her house five weeks ago.  Still, when I see Posy, my heart drops a little. I’m ready to go back to bed, or maybe spend the day Haymitch-style.

“Katniss just went into labor, oh, an hour ago?” Posy brushes past me and starts to go through my clothes. She might just beat Johanna Mason from Seven for the title of pushiest Victor, and that’s saying quite a bit because Johanna took her shirt off halfway through my first conversation with her. “And you’re going to be there for the birth of your daughter. Obviously.” She opens the bottom drawer and peeks in.

I hobble back to my bed and start to remove my leg. “I’m not going.”

Posy’s head pops up, and she smiles. “Oh, Peeta. You couldn’t stop this if you tried. You’re lucky they sent me first. Both of your brothers _and_ all three of mine are on standby, ready to drag you here.” She goes back to her task.

I raise an eyebrow. “And who organized that?” It couldn’t have been Katniss.

“Haymitch, who else? Here, try this on. It’s very ‘I got my wife pregnant nine months ago, but haven’t spoken to her in a month,’ don’t you think?” I am most definitely going to ship her on that train to District Seven the next time I can. There are woods there. She’ll survive.

I stop taking off my leg and look at my hands. “It’s not mine,” I mumble. It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud since the fight.  Of course, this is my first conversation longer than three words since then, too. It’s been a rough month and a half. The truth of the sentence still feels raw, though.

Posy crosses the room and, without warning, slaps me. “That’s from Prim,” she informs me, “who would do it herself, but she’s nonviolent, and she’s busy delivering a baby. Your baby. This,” she slaps me again, “is for Katniss, who is a bit preoccupied. And this,” she punches me this time, right in the nose, “is from the past you, and the future you. You can thank me later.”

I rub my stinging jaw. There’s really nothing more to say. I know it’s true. “Why else would Katniss have hid that visit from me?”

“Because she was afraid you would act like this!” Posy rolls her eyes and stops rummaging. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you any less.”

I shake my head and stare at a spot on the wall above Posy. “She never said that.” My voice is unsteady, more than I thought it would be. That’s been the real confirmation through all of it. Not once, not even after I said it, did Katniss tell me she loved me. She was just using me, just like my mother. And she left me, just like Madge. 

“Peeta.” Posy sits on the bed and takes my hand. “Have you seen the way that Katniss looks at you? Trust me, the only person that feels sorry for you right now is you. Every single Victor in this country has issues, but you’re one of the lucky ones because you have someone who will be there for you. Always. Do you know how much I would kill for someone who loves me the way that Katniss loves you?” Her voice breaks, and I realize just how selfish I’ve been.

 In a way, I’ve been as bad as Haymitch when it comes to being a good mentor. I’ve been too wrapped up in my personal life to really listen to her. I hug her tightly. “Posy, I—“

She interrupts me. “It’s okay. I’ve been talking to Cashmere and Finnick and Cato. They know a bit more about the circuit than you do.” Her eyes glaze over for a moment before they snap back to this moment. “But do you know what helps, Peeta?” I shake my head. “Knowing that there really is love. When I see the way that Finnick looks at Annie, or Madge looks at Gale,” I make a small scoff here, but she ignores it, “or Rory looks at Prim, or Vick looks at a car, or Katniss looks at _you_ , I know that, someday, if I’m really lucky, someone will look at me like that, too.” Her eyes are tearing up, so I take her and kiss her on the forehead.

I stroke her hair and rub her back. “It’ll happen, Posy. And when it does, it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.”

She looked up at me. “Then why are you throwing it away?”

I sigh. “How do I know if she’s telling the truth?” I ask. I’m not really expecting an answer, but Posy gives one anyway.

She shrugs and says, “You don’t. You just have to trust Katniss, and trust that she loves you.” Posy pauses. “And you need to stop the whole self-loathing thing. Just because some people haven’t loved you doesn’t mean you’re unlovable.” Just when I think she’s getting soft, she throws some clothes at me.

 

When we hit the house, I can hear Katniss talking, but surprisingly, she’s not screaming. “…my bow and run an arrow through his precious little paintings, and then attack him with a big knife. And let me tell you, the first thing that’s going to go…”It’s funny how I can be insanely happy to hear her voice and slightly fearful for my life at the same time.

Posy opens the door unannounced, probably because everyone is preoccupied enough that they can’t open it for themselves. They’re back in the bedroom, so I look through the open doorway before I step into the room. The sight is much more organized than I thought it would be, but perhaps that’s what happens when you have both of the Seam’s healers in your family. Mrs. Everdeen is crouched at the bottom of the bed as the midwife while Prim wipes Katniss’s brow with a wet cloth, smoothing her hair down. Madge is the one holding Katniss’s hand, though she looks like she’s in serious pain every time Katniss has a contraction.

Katniss is beautiful, even though she’s covered in sweat. Her hair is sticking to the back of her neck, and it’s out of its braids because of an old superstition. Even though it’s obvious that she wants to scream, she keeps clenching her teeth rather than letting any sounds out. In that moment, I realize that, even if Katniss doesn’t love me, I still can’t _not_ love her. I will always feel attached to my wife. Perhaps Posy is right. I might just have to trust Katniss because I know I’m not strong enough to leave her again.

Posy enters the room first. Mrs. Everdeen spots her out of the corner of her eye. “Can you open the window, Posy? I think Katniss would appreciate a bit of a breeze.” Posy crosses the room, but none of them seem to notice me because Katniss has another contraction, and this time, she does scream out. “It’s okay, Katniss, you’re about halfway there, and then we’ll be able to start pushing.”

“You’re not going to be pushing anything! It’s going to be me doing all the work. And I don’t want to! Can she just stay inside for a little bit longer? It’s it’s safe in there, and—“ Katniss finally spots me. For a second she just stares, but then she looks away. “Posy…”

Posy’s eyes crinkle up as she smiles. “I brought you a present, Katniss.”

“Why is _he_ here? Nobody asked for him!” I look at Posy, and she shrugs innocently. Seems the girl can lie through her teeth. But it doesn’t matter, unfortunately, because I’m already here. I can’t go back now because I don’t want to. I take a step forward. “It’s not even his baby, so why bother?” I wince. I deserve that.

Madge turns her head, but she quickly looks away once she sees me. Wiping her sweaty hands on her palms, she says, “I think I’m going to go get you water, Katniss.” She scurries out of the room, careful not to brush me. I’m surprised that it doesn’t hurt, seeing her here.  

“That sounds like a great idea. I think we all need some water,” Prim says, grabbing Posy’s wrist. “Why don’t you come help me carry, Posy?” In what might be her most demure act, Posy follows Prim without comment.

Mrs. Everdeen looks at me, and then looks back at Katniss. “If you feel like you need to push, darling, you call me.” And then she, too, is gone.

“Wait!” Katniss calls. “Don’t you dare leave me!” But it’s too late. The room is empty save the two of us. Katniss turns her head away. I go over to the bed, and my prosthetic clicks as I kneel down next to her. I try to take her hand, but she moves it before I can touch her. “Have you come to apologize, Peeta?”

“Yes.” She’s obviously not expecting that because her head snaps back to me. Her eyes widen for a second, but then she narrows them.

“Go on…” she says before another contraction takes over her body. She snatches my hand and squeezes it so hard, she might just break it. I’m not sure it would be an accident, either.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry that I didn’t let you be an equal partner in our marriage. I’m sorry that I scared you.” I sigh. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you in this past month and a half. I’m sorry I compared you to Madge, and to my mother, and to everyone who’s ever let me down. And,” I take a deep breath here, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I love you nearly as often as I should.”

“No,” Katniss says before she screams again. She seems to have less compunction about screaming in front of me than the others. “I’m not accepting your apology, Peeta, until we have this fight. Because we’re going to have it at some point, and I don’t want to have to leave the house next time.” At this point, she’s panting and grinding her teeth instead of screaming. It’s more disconcerting because I can judge how much pain she’s in, if she screams.

“Do you think it’s time? I can go grab your mother…” I motion to the door, but she tightens her hand around my wrist like a vice.

“No! We’re having this fight. I’ll start.” She puffs out three times. “We need to actually talk. About actual real things. And you need to actually realize that I’m actually a decent person. And that I’m not going to cheat, or going to leave you, because I’m actually in love with you. So you need to understand that if you take me and _your_ baby back, you’re stuck with us for life. Also, you need to let me cook. I won’t poison you, I promise. And work with Sae. And close the window sometimes when it’s freezing out.”

My jaw drops. _Because I’m actually in love with you_. I never thought Katniss would ever say those words. Of course, I never thought we’d be fighting, if that’s what this is, while she was in labor with my child, either.  “Katniss, I love—“

She slaps me. “Oh no, you don’t. We are fighting. And it doesn’t count, not until I’m not—“

I kiss her, and I don’t feel insecure when she doesn’t automatically kiss me back. Her shield does come down for a moment, and it feels like just yesterday that we were happy in my room together. She seems to sense her weakness, and she pulls away. “You keep trying to fight, but I’m just happy we’re back together.”

Her eyes narrow. “What if I told you we’re not back together? Would you fight with me then?” The sweat is beading on her forehead, and I automatically wipe it away.

“Katniss, we’ll get through this. After you deliver our baby, okay?” I kiss her forehead, and cradle her head. “Because it’s time, and I don’t want the first sounds our child hears to be us fighting.”

She doesn’t answer me, but she doesn’t push me away, either. She simply screams for her mother. It sets the tone for the rest of the labor, really. There’s a flurry around Katniss, and a lot of noise, but I’m just someone whose hand she can squeeze. She doesn’t look at me at all, not until her mother says, “And it’s a girl. Peeta, do you want to cut the cord?” Katniss’s eyes in that moment snap to mine, and I nod. Mrs. Everdeen hands me the scissors. As soon as that’s done, Prim takes the baby and cleans it before Katniss can call it kidnapping.

Because, once the baby is in Katniss’s arms, she doesn’t look like she’s ever going to let go again. Sensing the intimacy of the moment, everyone once again gives us a moment of privacy. Katniss is still looking at our baby girl when she says, “She has your curls.”

I hadn’t noticed it until now, but it’s true that you can see the beginning of a spiral with what little hair the baby has. It’s dark though, not blond. It’ll be interesting to see if we’ll be able to braid her hair and get it to stay in place. “We should call her Larkspur. Or Lark. Or whatever you want.”

Katniss snorts, and the baby squirms in her arms. “Lark Mellark, Peeta?” I flush. “What about Laurel? Laurel Mellark,” she whispers quietly.

I lean in. “I think it works.” This time when I kiss her, Katniss is receptive, and I’m the one that pulls away. I push some hair out of her face.

“Look what we made, Peeta. We made Laurel Anne Mellark,” she half-speaks, half-sings.

“We did, Katniss. We did.”


	12. Deep in the Meadow

I’m staring at Laurel for the hundredth time, counting her eyelashes, when Peeta comes into the room and kisses my neck. “Come on, sweetheart. I love you, but we need to get some rest before the baby wakes up again.” I nod, and I walk with Peeta to our room, our hands intertwined up to the elbow.

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow_  
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow  
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
And when you awake, the sun will rise.

Madge was wrong. It’s not easy to love someone. But that doesn’t make it any less important. Peeta has his bad days still, but I’ve learned not to give in. And I have mine, when I won’t talk to him, and he has to draw me out to find the problem. We try to talk as much as possible, but that’s hard with a newborn in the house. Of course, we also try to do this as often as possible, too.

Sex is no longer about power or control or schedules. We have less of it these days, but the quality is so much better. As we slip off each other’s robes, we can take a moment to stop and appreciate the simple fact that we have each other. We can slide into bed and simply enjoy the moment. We’re not looking to express ourselves through the physical anymore. Rather, it’s just the culmination of everything we’ve been saying all day.

 _Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
Here the daisies guard you from harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you.

The baby cries sometime after we’re done, but Peeta goes to grab her. He holds Laurel in his arms, and I sing to them both. It’s easy to love her, but that doesn’t make it any less important. He takes the braids out of my hair as I sing, and we feel whole.

 _Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_  
A cloak of leaves, A moonbeam ray, Forget your woes and let your troubles lay  
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.

 _Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This started off as one thing, and then became another, and then it shifted again. I hope you liked it because I certainly enjoyed writing it. And yeah. I'm bad at author's notes.

**Author's Note:**

> So, big shout of thanks to four people--Mejhiren, for suggesting a set of three lovely prompts; my own Secret Santa, for tackling my horrible prompts; angylinni, for not killing me when I became the problem one; and my beta, for dealing with my issues and late night writing sprees and for not killing me even though she knows where I live. All of the mistakes are completely my fault.  
> .  
> I own absolutely none of the rights to The Hunger Games. Those belong to Suzanne Collins and Lionsgate.


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